<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Guarding Anthony by Magnolia822</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090280">Guarding Anthony</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822'>Magnolia822</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Complete, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Gender Issues, Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Original Character(s), Other, Pansexual Crowley (Good Omens), Parent-Child Relationship, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, implied/referenced eating disorder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:28:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When middling angel Aziraphale is assigned as guardian to one Anthony J Crowley, aging playboy and heir to an industrial fortune, he finally has the chance to prove himself to Heaven and earn his place on Earth. Armed only with the compendious yet vague Binder of Guardian Angel Protocols, he must learn to trust his own instincts if he is to stop Crowley from self-destructing. </p><p>Anthony Crowley has been living his life in the shadow of a tragic incident from his past. He never expects help to come from the most unlikely quarter: a dowdy, yet intriguing, bookseller named A.Z. Fell. </p><p>Neither of them expects to fall in love. But on this crazy place called Earth, anything can happen. Can't it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Top Aziraphale Recs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Past is Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is an alternate universe loosely (very loosely) based on the film <i>It's A Wonderful Life</i> and was initially begun over on the kink meme in fulfillment of <a href="https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2746457">this prompt</a>. I will be updating at least once a week, maybe more. Please heed the tags for trigger warnings. </p><p>Thank you to SillyGoose for the beta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The club was pulsing with energy as Crowley made his way to the bar and ordered another drink. He’d already had enough to loosen the stress of the day and make him eager for company. Thankfully, there was always plenty of that at Hades; all Crowley had to do was pick between the pretty brunette with the pouty lips who’d been eyeing him up from the other side of the bar or the stubbly bloke in the leather pants on the edge of the dance floor. </p>
<p>Crowley tossed back the shot of tequila, slipped a tip to the bartender, and chose the bloke. </p>
<p>“Hey,” the bloke said in a deep, rumbling voice as Crowley sidled up. He had a close-shaven head and bulging muscles, and Crowley let himself be manhandled into the throng of writhing dancers. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” the guy shouted into his ear. </p>
<p>The line made Crowley want to roll his eyes. He knew he looked good in his tight-fitting, low-cut black top, but he wished people could be a little more creative with their come-ons. Then again, he wasn’t here for conversation, and the firm thigh between his legs soon distracted him from any other thoughts. </p>
<p>They danced for a few songs and then headed back to the bar for more drinks. The guy had told Crowley his name at some point, but Crowley had promptly forgotten it. It didn’t really matter. He was a good kisser, and his hard cock was nice to grind against. At some point, Anathema, his PA, texted him and told him she was sending a car to collect him. Crowley was drunk enough to ignore the message, even though it meant he was probably going to be late for his meeting with his mother the following morning. They had a few more drinks, and the guy asked Crowley to come back to his. </p>
<p>Crowley’s vision was a little bleary. His stomach was cramping, and he realized he hadn’t had dinner. He’d meant to . . . but he’d gotten too busy with work and then . . . </p>
<p>“I’m sorry—” he said, staggering away towards the toilets. “I think I’m going to be ill.”  </p>
<p>He barely made it, pushing the door open and launching himself at the nearest unoccupied toilet. He heaved, bringing up the remnants of the night’s excesses. The bowl reeked of urine, and the floor was covered in worse. In the next stall over, he could hear soft moans, but any interest in sex or the guy he’d been dancing with—Tom? Sam?—was gone. Maybe in his younger days he would have rallied and gone back to the bar, but tonight . . . he felt his age. His head swam as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sat on his haunches, trying to find the strength to stand. </p>
<p>Why was he here? </p>
<p>His phone pinged again. </p>
<p>What was he doing? </p>
<p>He was going to be sick again. “Heaven help me,” he moaned as his stomach clenched painfully. “Please.” That was the last thing he remembered.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>There was a fresh pile of paperwork on the Archangel Gabriel’s desk the following morning. Gabriel rubbed his hands together. He loved work, and he especially loved assigning other angels to do it.<p>He spent a few minutes leafing through humanity’s daily pleas and cries for help. Lots of people asking for divine intervention for things like more money, cars, success, as usual. Lots of asking for loved ones to get well from a serious illness. Some requests were vaguer, and these were Gabriel’s favorite assignments, especially for angels with unsatisfactory performance reviews. They could be a real challenge and were useful for separating the wheat from the chaff; you found out who really ‘got it’ and who didn’t. </p>
<p>Subject: Anthony J Crowley<br/>Prayer: Vague<br/>Objective: Unclear</p>
<p>Gabriel tapped his pen on the paper and then, with a flourish of inspiration, smiled. He knew just the angel for the task.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Basic Protocol</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Principality Aziraphale,” said the Archangel Gabriel, walking toward him briskly, a manila folder in hand and wearing a crisp grey suit. It was never a good sign when Gabriel spoke to you directly, and usually a worse one when paperwork was involved. Aziraphale, who had been playing chess—the only human game they were allowed in Heaven—nearly tipped over his chair in his haste to stand. </p><p>“Ah, yes? How can I help you?” </p><p>“I’d like to speak with you—in private.” Gabriel arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale’s companion,  who, with one expression of apology directed at Aziraphale, in turn stood and fled the scene. Oh pooh. Aziraphale had been winning for once. </p><p>“What about?” Aziraphale offered what he hoped was a pleasant, open smile to disguise the swimming unease in his stomach. </p><p>“Walk with me, talk with me,” Gabriel said, giving him a wink. </p><p>Aziraphale hurried to keep up as Gabriel strode through the Seraphim Lounge, which was where most of the lesser angels spent their free time, when they had any, which was rare. It was also a hotbed for gossip, and more than a few curious gazes followed their trajectory as they made for the hallway that led to Gabriel's office. By the time they entered and shut the door, Aziraphale’s nerves were shot through with wondering why he’d been taken aside. He had been spending a bit more time than was necessary on his chess game, so he hoped he wasn’t being reprimanded. Perhaps a new work assignment? The thought of having something productive to do appealed, but Gabriel was infamous for assigning grunt work. </p><p>“Aziraphale. You’re going to Earth—again.” Gabriel stood behind his desk, spreading his fingers wide over the manila folder and sliding it towards him. </p><p>“Earth? Really?” Aziraphale perked up. He hadn’t been to Earth in over a hundred years and he did miss it, the food most especially. And the books. Humans were such interesting creatures. “What sort of work is it? A blessing?” He really loved those, especially the ones that required his presence for an extended period of time. He was already wondering what sorts of new pastries they might have—he had heard another angel speaking of something called a cronut. It sounded delightful.    </p><p>“Nope, not this time. Guardian angel. To one human named Crowley. Anthony J Crowley. Dunno what the <i>J</i> stands for. You’ve got all his paperwork right there in the dossier. It’s your lucky day, champ.” </p><p>“Guardian angel? To an Anthony J Crowley. Really?” Aziraphale realised he was doing a lot of repeating, but he was having a hard time comprehending the sudden alteration in his circumstances. He had spent the last several hundred years advocating for a guardian angel position, but all of his performance reviews had fallen just short of the scores required to earn such a title. He wasn’t sure what had changed, but he wasn’t going to press his luck by questioning it. </p><p>“Yes, really. Effective immediately. You’re going to London, bud!” Gabriel’s teeth gleamed. “All you have to do is select a suitable human profession and we’ll send you on your way.”</p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips and opened the folder. The first page was a summary of Anthony’s life so far. He was male, currently thirty-nine years old, unmarried, and the heir to a British textile fortune. A recent photograph showed a person of rather tall and slender build, with shoulder-length red hair, wearing a black outfit that looked painted on, along with snakeskin boots. He had a wide smile and a slightly devilish glint to his eyes, which were also outlined in sooty black. Next to him, a curvaceous woman wearing a very small dress clung to his side. </p><p>“Who is the young woman?” </p><p>“Ah, who knows. One of many, I assume. Mr. Crowley isn’t exactly known for being monogamous. He’s a bit of what humans call a ‘partier’.” Gabriel steepled his fingers. “He’s not exactly making the best life choices. That’s where you come in.” </p><p>“You want me to help him make better choices?” Flipping through the rest of the file only seemed to confirm Gabriel’s description of Crowley’s lifestyle. Drinking, drug use, sex—all documented in rather excruciating detail. </p><p>Gabriel seemed suddenly bored. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the gist of the whole guardian angel thing. You’ll figure it out. Ah, but you’ll need the Binder of Protocols, too – hang on a sec.” Gabriel turned and selected an extremely thick blue binder filled with sheaves of paper and clunked it down on the desk between them. With mounting nervousness, Aziraphale noted all of the tabs. “There you go. Never leave Heaven without it. Get it?” Gabriel grinned like he’d told an incredible joke. Aziraphale swallowed. “So what’ll it be? Car salesman? Crowley likes his cars. It’ll be a great way for you two to meet. I’m late for another appointment, so if we could make it snappy.” </p><p>“I thought . . . I would rather like to be a bookseller, if that is okay with you.” Aziraphale closed the folder and placed it on top of the Binder of Protocols. He would have to take a closer look once he was on Earth. </p><p>“A bookseller?” Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “What for?” </p><p>“I like books. They’re so lovely to hold and they contain such interesting things! The last time I was on Earth, I discovered some volumes by the late Oscar Wilde. What a splendid example of human resilience and ingenuity in the face of terrible—” </p><p>Gabriel held up his hand and shook his head, grimacing. “All right, all right. I get it, you like books for some reason. Sure. Boring, but no problem, though you’ll have to figure out a way to get Crowley into your shop. Not sure he’s a big reader, if you know what I mean. Timetables are on page thirty-five of appendix B. Gotta run.” </p><p>Aziraphale took a deep breath. He could handle this. This was what he had wanted for so long, and now he was finally getting a chance to prove himself. “All right. I think I’m ready to go.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The location Aziraphale selected for his bookshop was on a busy corner of SoHo in London, situated not far away from the Mayfair flat Crowley inhabited. In addition to the convenient locale, Aziraphale liked the energy of the neighborhood; there were lots of restaurants filled with sweet and savory items that Aziraphale could hardly wait to sample. There were also shops filled with interesting knick-knacks, barber shops and nail salons to meet one’s personal grooming needs, pubs, theatres, all sorts of places to find rare and unusual books and classical records.<p>Many things had, however, changed since his last sojourn. For one, the fashions. Anthony Crowley, as an example, seemed on the cutting edge of the latest trends, which defied logic as well as comfort as far as Aziraphale was concerned. He preferred a classic tartan bow tie and velvet waistcoat, which he procured from one of the vintage clothing stores not far from his shop. </p><p>Another was the people. There were more of them, and they were more diverse—people from every nation and of every colour and creed, all mingling together. Aziraphale felt that was quite lovely, and he also approved of the recent strides that had been made for those who were romantically interested in the same human sex. The last time he had been here, things had been awful for those poor souls. He was glad to see things had changed for the better. </p><p>Finally, Aziraphale was shocked by the technology. Every human seemed to have a small black gadget in their hands at all times—a mobile phone, he learned they were called. Everything seemed to be automatic, and several times Aziraphale had been left open-mouthed, gaping and confused as he tried to pay for his purchases. No one used money anymore, and he couldn't quite understand what the ‘Internet’ was or how to get it to work. It was all rather confusing, and tiring. </p><p>Luckily, his bookshop was a safe haven away from all of the very confusing and exhilarating new surroundings. Aziraphale very much enjoyed beginning his book collection. He started with a few miracles, of course, just to get things underway, but soon he had begun making connections with some of London’s finest book dealers and perusing every catalogue he could get his hands on. He hadn’t precisely sold many books, but then again, he didn’t need the money, and he was learning he wasn’t exactly fond of customers, especially those who were interested in buying some of his more treasured volumes. </p><p>And then there was the matter of Anthony Crowley. Three months had passed since Aziraphale had accepted his assignment, and he had yet to meet the man in the flesh. According to the schedule he’d found in appendix B of the Binder of Protocols, which was very confusing and seemed to suggest he make contact within four months except in circumstances where it was better for the human in question that he not make contact (there were no guidelines to determine if the latter case applied), he still had time. Maybe. </p><p>Perhaps it had not been the most auspicious start for a guardian angel, but Aziraphale was working up to it. He had also thoroughly investigated the dossier Gabriel had provided on the man himself, but upon closer perusal he found it cursory where depth was required, and unnecessarily detailed regarding every salacious moment of Anthony’s life. </p><p>For example, it was said that Anthony was heir apparent to the fortune of his family textile firm, but no information was given regarding his parental relationships at all. There was very little about his personality or interests aside from his fondness for cars and sex. On the latter topic, Aziraphale had discovered that not only was the man interested in women, he was interested in men and also those that preferred to identify as neither; he had been documented performing all sorts of sex acts with all sorts of people. Aziraphale found it a bit distasteful really—the documentation, not the acts. Surely whatever field angel had carried out the surveillance had gone above and beyond the call of duty. </p><p>There were things that tantalised. A ‘life-changing event’ in his youth was referenced, but never explicitly described. And then there were the photos—not the sexual ones, but the photos of Anthony in quieter moments. Under his flash and bravado, his eyes looked sad. Aziraphale was sure there was a depth there not documented in the personal files; he hoped there was, at least, given Heaven had seen fit to assign Anthony a guardian. However, if he was going to find out more, he would have to do some surveillance of his own. But of a friendlier, less obtrusive variety. That is, as soon as he was satisfied with his book collection. </p><p>It wasn’t that he was nervous about succeeding. All right, he was a smidge. This was a man’s life in his hands, as it were. He had been entrusted with the sacred duty of caring for one of Her own creations. Not only that, it was his moment to prove to Heaven, once and for all, that he deserved a permanent station on Earth. No more little blessings or temporary assignments. He could stay and be among the humans and all of their lovely things, and he could <i>help</i>. </p><p>But of course, there was the fact that he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do for Anthony. Encourage him to have fewer sexual partners? Heaven did like to have people married off, if only to cut down on paperwork, but Aziraphale had never been convinced that She really cared one way or another. Aside from the cursory guidance Gabriel had given him, and the extremely confusing Binder of Protocols, he wasn’t exactly sure what sort of guarding he was supposed to be doing. </p><p>He found out, however, on the night Anthony J Crowley crashed into his bookshop.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Fortuitious Incident</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley rolled out of bed with a headache, groaning as he did. He could barely remember the previous evening at the club, and what he did remember—alcohol, dancing, and the toilets—certainly didn’t recommend it. He’d been trying to forget about work and his morning meeting, but he’d gone a little overboard, perhaps. </p><p><i>You engage in self-defeating activities.</i> That’s what his shrink said. Well, that’s what she’d said before Crowley had stopped showing up to his appointments. </p><p>Crowley managed to drag himself to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror over the sink. He was going to be forty in a month, and the circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced than they ever had before, the skin around them pinched. His mouth tasted of cigarettes and stale vodka, and copper stubble had begun to sprout on his neck and chin. It wasn’t easy to admit that some of it was grey. </p><p>He turned on the tap and let warm steam fill the room and grabbed his shaving kit, grateful when the mirror began to fog. It was better when he didn’t have to see himself.</p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The drive to the office was performed via the help of an extremely large cup of black coffee and glasses that muted the worst of the sunlight. Anathema, his PA, met him there with another cup of coffee and a white wax paper bag that contained something that smelled vaguely of cheese. Crowley’s stomach turned, but he accepted it anyway and slunk behind his desk, depositing himself in the ridiculous chair—more of a throne really—that he’d bought on a whim. <p><i>Just to make your mother angry,</i> his therapist had said. Well, it had worked, hadn’t it? </p><p>“You look horrible,” said Anathema, plucking a stylus from behind her ear and flipping open her tablet. “But I love the shoes.” Her dark brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves that made Crowley envious. </p><p>He frowned down at his feet, regarding the heeled boots he’d dragged out from the back of his closet. They made his legs seem even longer, which he liked. They would have looked even better with a skirt, but he hadn’t wanted to rock the boat this morning. For a change. “Thanks.” </p><p>“You finally made it home?” </p><p>“Apparently. Not sure exactly how.”</p><p>She cocked her head at him appraisingly. “Crowley.” </p><p>“I’m fine, I’m fine. So how’s today look?” </p><p>“Well, your mother is angry that you’re late, but I assume you know already. After your meeting with her you have an eleven o’clock with Japan. Then you’re free for lunch. You have a meeting with the American distributor at one and fire safety at two. If you think the meeting will go over, I can postpone.” </p><p>“Nah, it’ll be fine.” Crowley waved his hand as Anathema proceeded to rattle off the rest of the day. He tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to the night before, to that elusive moment just before he passed out. </p><p>He hated this office. He hated the beige walls, the even beiger carpet. His chest felt tight, and he sipped his coffee and tried to take deep breaths, visualise himself in a forest or a beach or something. He didn’t want to be here. </p><p>“Crowley? Did you get all that?” Anathema paused, and Crowley looked blankly up at her and nodded. </p><p>“Got it. Let’s go see what Mum has to say. Er, let me go. You—you should take the rest of the day off.” </p><p>Anathema gave him a small smile. “Uh. All right. Thanks. If you’re sure?” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Ciao,” Crowley said, and sauntered down the hall towards his mother’s office. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then pushed open her door.</p><p>“Morning, Mum.” </p><p>Agatha Crowley regarded him with an expression just south of disdain and north of irritation. Her steel-grey hair, still with streaks of its previous auburn, was pulled neatly back into a bun, and she was wearing a very beige pantsuit with a crisp white shirt underneath. She gave him the same once-over that she’d given him since he was a child, her gaze finally resting on his heeled boots before flicking back to his face. “Sit,” she said. </p><p>Crowley did, somehow managing not to spill his coffee as he arranged his limbs into a vaguely socially acceptable shape. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” </p><p>“Pacific Technologies are going to make an offer.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward over the desk. “I want to accept.” </p><p>The anger which had been simmering under his skin since he’d entered the building coalesced into a tight, hot ball in his chest. “What are you talking about? I thought we agreed we weren’t moving forward with the merger?” </p><p>His mother frowned. “I’ve had second thoughts. Moving production overseas is the only way we’re going to stay competitive in this global market. It’s the only way our business will survive. Your father’s legacy.” </p><p>Crowley cringed inwardly. His mother knew exactly how he felt about shutting down their Tadfield factory, and she knew exactly how to shut him up, as well. </p><p>“What about the workers?” Crowley asked. As the largest employer in all of Tadfield, and the largest textile manufacturer still operational in Britain, a closure would be devastating to thousands of lives. </p><p>“Oh, be realistic, Anthony. Everyone else has done it. It’s not like it’s not expected. If we don’t accept their offer, we’ll be gone in five years anyway. We’re losing money every day.” </p><p>Crowley shook his head. “You mean we won’t be as profitable.” </p><p>She scoffed. “You’re so naive about some things, Anthony. Not at all like your father in that respect.” </p><p>“Can you leave him out of it for once?” </p><p>She ignored him, threading her fingers together, which were bare save for the gold wedding band she still wore. “Just so you know, we are moving forward. I’m still the CEO of this company and I know what’s right for it. We are a business, not a charity.”</p><p>“You think you’re the only one who cares about this place?” </p><p>“Oh please, you’ve always resented your role here, don’t try to deny it. You will be here in two weeks for the meeting with Pacific, and you will be on your best behavior. And dress appropriately, of course. Dress like a man.” She gave his boots another pointed glance. </p><p>Being insulted and spoken to like a child curdled Crowley’s gut. Even worse, it tied his tongue. His mother had always known the precise buttons to push to bring him to heel, and in spite of his being in control of most company operations, she was still the majority owner. He stood, nearly livid with rage, and stalked out of the room. </p><p>Somehow he managed to get through the day with that simmering rage tamped down inside of him. It was after nine by the time he finally clambered into the Bentley and headed through the streets of London, wondering whether he should go back to his empty flat or find a place to drink himself into another dreamless sleep. </p><p>He was forty years old. Maybe it was time for him to leave it all behind, after all. He had done his duty, played his role of corporate drone as long as he could bear it, and all for the love of a man who had been dead twenty years. No, he had never wanted to work at Tadfield. He’d had plans. He was going to travel the world. He was going to help people, find a cure for HIV, maybe even become an astronomer. Youthful pipe dreams. He couldn’t even stand up to a woman who treated him like a son only when it suited her, and then, barely. </p><p>The Bentley's engine hummed as he pressed the gas pedal and zoomed through a yellow traffic light, maneuvering expertly around those obeying the speed limit. He didn’t fancy going home after all. Perhaps what he needed was another night out. Maybe in SoHo. </p><p>He took a sharp right turn, but just at that moment, something in the periphery caught his eye. A teenager on a scooter was crossing the street with their eyes focused on a cell phone, and Crowley swerved the wheel, narrowly missing them—then overcorrected. Before he knew what was happening the Bentley careened onto the sidewalk and crashed with a deafening thud. </p><p>“Oh fuck,” Crowley said as the impact registered. Building. Car. By some miracle, the sidewalk had been empty. That was the most important thing. His car, however. His <i>baby</i>. He opened the door and, with a groan of pain that had less to do with whiplash and more to do with the crushed headlight and crumpled hood, fell to his knees. </p><p>He must have been that way for only seconds, but it felt like an eternity as the engine hissed and sizzled. A group of curious passersby had gathered, but it wasn’t until he heard the kind, soft voice of a man that he realised he wasn’t alone. </p><p>“Excuse me, my dear. Are you quite all right?” </p><p>Crowley blinked, tearing his eyes away from his Bentley. The man who was speaking to him was illuminated from behind by a streetlamp. He was middle aged, of average height, and built sturdily, with a slightly upturned nose and a swath of white-blond hair that looked even brighter haloed in the light. Perhaps he would have been unremarkable if Crowley had passed him on the street. But his face was kind and open, and his smile was gentle. </p><p>“I’m afraid you’ve crashed your automobile into my bookshop. Should we call the emergency services?” the man asked in a posh, slightly odd accent. </p><p>Crowley cleared his throat. “No. I mean. I think I’m okay. Shit. I’m s-so sorry. Your bookshop, you say?” He glanced up at the sign above the door not five feet away. A.Z. Fell &amp; Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books.  </p><p>A shadow of something like surprise passed over the man’s face. His eyes widened, and he stepped closer, peering at Crowley as though he were seeing him for the first time. “My goodness. This is certainly unexpected.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “I bet. I’ll pay for any damages, of course.” Though it did look more like the Bentley had received the brunt of the injury. The windows of the shop had been astonishingly spared. “I gotta call someone about my car. The police. My assistant.” Crowley muttered to himself as he fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket. His hands were trembling with adrenaline, and he nearly dropped it. “You probably need my insurance or something, too. I—” </p><p>The man shook his head. “Never mind about all that. Please, come in and have a cup of tea. You can make your phone calls from inside.” He extended a very attractive, well-manicured hand. </p><p>Crowley took it and was surprised by the warm, firm grip and the strength behind it as the man helped him to his feet. They were several inches different in height, with Crowley the taller of the two, but something about the man was strange. He seemed . . . more than what he was, if that made any sense. Perhaps Crowley had hit his head during the crash.   </p><p>A.Z. Fell.  </p><p>“What’s it stand for?” Crowley asked, looking again at the sign as they entered the musty, warm shop. </p><p>“I’m sorry, my dear boy, what does what stand for?” </p><p>“The A.Z. On your sign. Is it your name?” </p><p>“Oh.” The man seemed surprised, as though he had never been asked the question before. “Well, it is my name, yes. You can call me Ezra.” </p><p>“All right. I’m Crowley.” </p><p>The man’s—Ezra’s—eyes were very blue. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance, Crowley.” He fiddled with the button of what Crowley realised was a very fussy, old-fashioned waistcoat. It seemed to suit him. </p><p>“Yours too. Thanks for not freaking out about, well, you know.” He gestured vaguely. </p><p>“I try to keep things in perspective.” </p><p>“How long have you owned this bookshop?” Crowley asked, his eyes drifting around the dimly lit store. It was after hours so they were alone. The space was cosy and quiet, and looked cared for if a bit dusty, with a sort of shabby-chic vibe that appealed to Crowley. Miles of books lined the shelves, which were of all different heights and sizes. They didn’t appear to be labeled by author or subject, and as Crowley absent-mindedly stroked the spines of some leather-bound volumes of Milton, he could feel Ezra watching him. Next to the Milton were several ancient horticultural texts, and next to them, James Bond. He wondered how anyone found anything in this place. </p><p>Ezra gave him a small smile. “A while. Do you care for books?” </p><p>“Ah, not a big reader, I confess. Don’t have much time for it.” </p><p>“People do seem so busy these days,” Ezra said, coming closer to rearrange a few volumes, though into what order, Crowley couldn’t determine. “It all seems very complicated. Do you work in town?” </p><p>Crowley, who had been distracted by the accident enough to forget all about work and the debacle with his mother, sighed. “I do.” </p><p>“It doesn’t sound like you enjoy it very much.” </p><p>Crowley raked a hand through his hair, wondering how wild it looked. “I don’t, really. Or well, I do enjoy some aspects of it, but . . .  I sometimes feel that I . . . that I’ve become trapped.” Ezra listened very intently, and something about him . . . something was familiar, but Crowley couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Have we ever met before?” </p><p>“I can’t say that we have,” Ezra replied, his voice soft. He smelled faintly of bergamot and warm leather. </p><p>Crowley was tempted to lean closer. He must be losing his mind. “S’pose not.” </p><p>Ezra’s forehead wrinkled like he was trying to work something out. Then he turned, and with a slight hesitance said, “What . . . Can I ask . . . what exactly happened out there?” </p><p>Crowley sighed. He didn’t want to tell the truth about his speeding because, for some reason, he didn’t want Ezra to think poorly of him. At least he hadn’t been drinking. With a couple of omissions regarding his anger and the events that had precipitated the crash, he gave the general outline. </p><p>“You could have been injured quite badly, Crowley. I do wish you’d reconsider driving so fast.” </p><p>Crowley sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I deserve that.” </p><p>“And those teenagers and their mobile devices. I wish that young person was here right now; I’d give them a sincere piece of my mind.” </p><p>In spite of the indignation that was partially directed his way, Crowley couldn’t help but smile at Ezra’s fussing. And <i>mobile devices. Automobile.</i> All of those strange anachronisms of speech. He certainly was a man out of time, though he couldn’t have been more than ten years older than Crowley himself. </p><p>“It is a very lovely automobile,” Ezra continued. “Will it be expensive to fix?” </p><p>“Unconscionably. Speaking of. I really should make those calls.” </p><p>“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Ezra said, gesturing to a well-worn sofa to the right. “I’ll be back in a moment with some tea and biscuits.” </p><p>Crowley perched on the edge of the sofa and retrieved his phone. He sent several messages to Anathema, and another to his mechanic, but the police arrived just as Ezra returned with a mug of steaming hot liquid. Crowley dutifully answered all of their questions and submitted willingly to a breathalyzer. Since no damage had been done to the facade of the store other than some minor scratching, Crowley got off with a citation for speeding and instructions to call for a tow truck. </p><p>It was well after eleven by the time the Bentley had been removed. Crowley yawned and watched as Ezra tidied up the crumbs and plates left by the police, to whom the bookseller had of course offered snacks. </p><p>“I guess I should be going,” he finally said, though he was loath to leave. He was so comfortable in the shop. He could imagine stretching out on the sofa and sleeping like the dead. </p><p>“Oh, yes. I suppose you must.” Ezra looked a little disappointed himself. </p><p>“Thank you for the tea and . . . well, everything.” </p><p>“It’s no bother at all. I do . . . I do hope you’ll return again. To ah. The shop.” Ezra fiddled with his buttons. He really was more attractive than Crowley had initially supposed, in a frumpy sort of way. Crowley wondered absently if he had a partner, and then he wondered why he was wondering. Ezra wasn’t the type he usually went for. Not at all.  </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah. I will.” Crowley stood and with a final, awkward wave, stepped outside to the street.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Spot of Lunch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthony J Crowley, or Crowley as he seemed to prefer, wasn’t at all what Aziraphale had expected. In the two days since their inauspicious meeting—which, in and of itself, seemed too convenient to be merely coincidence—Aziraphale had been consumed with dissecting the entire interaction, from finding Crowley kneeling outside the shop in distress, to inviting him in, to their conversation and the unfamiliar frisson of energy that had accompanied it. </p><p>The more he ruminated on it, the more he wondered if he had been correct to let Crowley go home without ascertaining if it was safe for him to do so. He had since read up on the effects of automobile accidents on the human body and had been horrified to discover how the vulnerability of spines, heads, and necks could lead to devastating injury. Crowley did have a rather long and elegant neck. He also had been in a state of something that might have been shock. On a personal level, Aziraphale also realised he had wasted a perfect opportunity to establish his own purpose; Crowley had seemed ready to speak more about his difficulties at work, and may have gone on if Aziraphale had pressed, but Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to pry. It seemed too invasive, somehow, for a first meeting. First meetings were for general impressions only, according to the Binder of Protocols. Guarding took time. At least Aziraphale was fairly sure Crowley was fit for direct contact with his guardian; or at least, he hoped so.  </p><p>Of one thing he was now certain. The devil-may-care attitude alluded to in Crowley’s file, while not entirely inaccurate, was not the whole picture. Yes, there was a recklessness inside of him, but he had also been much more thoughtful than Aziraphale had anticipated. He had asked Aziraphale questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers, although of course Aziraphale had not been able to tell him the truth. Revealing one’s true nature to the human one was guarding was entirely against protocol and means for immediate recall to Headquarters. </p><p>But in all of his fretting, Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about the air of loneliness hanging over him; even without his angelic powers, Aziraphale would have been a fool to mistake it for anything else. It had made him feel a strange sort of kinship . . . which was impossible, really, because Aziraphale was an angel and had no reason at all to be lonely. He had been put on this Earth with a purpose. He just had to determine what that purpose was, exactly. </p><p>He consulted the Binder of Protocols for next steps.</p><p>
  <i>Post-Contact Procedurals for Novice Guardians, Appendix D</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Once contact has been made, the guardian shall maintain a regimented schedule of visits, not more than one per day, using invisibility if circumstances dictate, but otherwise appearing in corporeal form. If corporeal visits are determined to be unwelcome, miracles may be used, but only in situations of last resort. Permission must be obtained for all novice guardians to use miracles in these situations by filling out the form in appendix F in triplicate. See also, Using Angelic Sight, addendum to Appendix E. </i>
</p><p>Aziraphale flipped the pages with a heavy sigh. </p><p>
  <i>Using Angelic Sight<br/>
Angelic sight may be used in any circumstance wherein it is determined to be necessary by the guardian; however, the following exceptions apply:<br/>
•	If the human is in utero<br/>
•	If the human is a blasphemer<br/>
•	If the human is determined to be a Lost Soul<br/>
•	Mondays through Fridays between the hours of 12–24:00<br/>
•	If the human has broken Commandments I-III and has not yet repented . . . . </i>
</p><p>The list went on and on. </p><p><i>Exceptions to these exceptions can be made by the guardian’s supervisor by filling out the form in …” </i> </p><p>Aziraphale leaned back in his desk chair and closed the binder, overwhelmed once again. He was exhausted, which was an odd yet not entirely unwelcome feeling. Perhaps this was the effect of being on Earth again after so long in Heaven. Or perhaps he was simply getting hungry. Of course Aziraphale didn’t require food to sustain him, but he found that the longer he stayed within his human vessel, the more he craved human comforts, eating being the primary one. He was a bit peckish, now that he thought of it, and the dumpling shop down the street had the most delightful pork xiao long bao— </p><p>The shop bell rang as the door opened. </p><p>“We’re closed,” he called out, irritated at whatever unseen human was interrupting his lunch plans. He took off his reading glasses—which he didn’t really need but enjoyed aesthetically—folded them and stood up, ready to further object.  </p><p>A familiar figure rounded the corner, and Aziraphale froze. Crowley was looking better than he had during their previous interaction. He wore his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a knot, and a slim-fitting black suit with a red silk scarf tied around his neck. In every way Aziraphale’s physical opposite, his lanky body and casual movements drew the eye, making it impossible to look away. He really was quite something.   </p><p>Crowley grinned as their eyes met. “If you’re closed, you should probably flip the sign.” </p><p>“Oh, Mr Crowley,” Aziraphale said, a little burst of excitement spreading through him. “How good to see you again so soon.” </p><p>“Just Crowley, please.” Crowley held up his hand. “If this is a bad time, I can go. I just wanted to come by to thank you again for your help the other night. Maybe take you to lunch?” </p><p>Aziraphale beamed. “You must have read my mind, my dear. I was just thinking lunch would be divine.” </p><p>“Okay, great. Cool.” Crowley thrust his thumbs into his tight pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’m not sure what’s in this neighborhood. Whatever you like is fine with me.” He shrugged. </p><p>“Do you like Chinese food? I’ve recently discovered a delectable place just down the next block.” Aziraphale’s stomach was already rumbling at the prospect. The variety of eateries on Earth, even within London, truly boggled the mind, and he had spent the last few months sampling familiar fare and trying new things. In Heaven, angels rarely ate, and when they did, manna was the only option. </p><p>“That’s fine.” Crowley looked around and arched an eyebrow. “No other customers today?” </p><p>“I should hope not,” said Aziraphale, heading to the coat rack to retrieve his jacket. There was a crisp fall chill in the air, though it was only early October. “Yesterday, I had a woman attempt to purchase my first edition of Sense and Sensibility. It’s not something I’d like to live through again.” He shuddered. </p><p>Crowley chuckled at him, and the two of them exited the bookshop together. At the last minute, Aziraphale remembered that with a human for company, he couldn’t lock the door with a miracle, and he had to hurry back inside to retrieve the ancient key he’d never used. Luckily, he didn’t have any further issues, and when he turned back to Crowley, it was to find the man watching him with a curious expression on his face. Aziraphale wondered what he was thinking.</p><p>“I still can’t believe I didn’t even break one of your windows.” Crowley gestured toward the faint scratches in the paintwork that had been left by his automobile and fiddled with a dark pair of sunglasses found in his interior jacket pocket. Aziraphale had considered miracling the evidence away but had decided against it. “They don’t make buildings like they used to.” </p><p>“Rather,” Aziraphale said as they fell into step side by side. “I hope that your auto—your car is reparable?” </p><p>“It is.” </p><p>“And you—are you quite recovered from the accident?” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone light, but even to his own ears he sounded worried. </p><p>“Oh yeah, totally fine. Ship shape, that’s me.” </p><p>“No headaches? No difficulty waking in the morning?” </p><p>Crowley shook his head. “Nope. Well, no more than usual.’ </p><p>“That’s such a relief to hear.” After all, it wouldn’t do at all for Crowley to be injured under Aziraphale’s watch. That certainly went against all guardian protocols. “I was very concerned you might have had a concussion. They can require hospitalisation, you know.” </p><p>Crowley laughed. </p><p>“Am I funny?” </p><p>“You are, a bit. I’m . . . it’s just unusual for a stranger to care so much about the welfare of someone they barely know. It’s . . . refreshing.” </p><p>“Is it? Why that’s terrible. People should care for one another. Look out for one another in times of need.” </p><p>“I hate to break it to you, but people are generally selfish, Ezra. It’s human nature. I should know.” There was a hint of something like disgust in Crowley’s voice, and Aziraphale realised it was self-directed.  </p><p>He attempted a smile. “A selfish person wouldn’t treat a near stranger out for lunch, would they?” </p><p>“Maybe they would. If they wanted something.” Crowley’s face was unreadable, but Aziraphale set that comment aside to meditate upon at a later time. He found it hard to fathom what Crowley could possibly want from him, aside perhaps for some friendly conversation. </p><p>They turned the corner toward the dumpling shop, and a shadow seemed to lift from Crowley’s spirits. He was more animated as conversation flowed towards other, less personal topics; for instance, he seemed delighted to listen to Aziraphale describe his first experience biting into a soup dumpling. (“It squirted all over me!”) And when Aziraphale shared his frustration regarding the increasing number of customers in the bookshop, Crowley tipped his head back and laughed. He suggested coming up with a sign outlining a restrictive set of opening hours to serve as a deterrent. (I’ll take care of it for you. Leave it to me.”) </p><p>It was an enjoyable outing. Crowley had a slinky, slouching sort of walk. He reminded Aziraphale of a great cat pacing the length of its zoo enclosure. In spite of his height, he adapted his pace to suit Aziraphale’s shorter stride. The sidewalk was quite busy with people on their lunch breaks, and suddenly Aziraphale found himself shoved unceremoniously by a delivery person carrying several large boxes. He lurched into Crowley, who steadied him with both hands, and a jolt of warmth travelled up Aziraphale’s arm from the point of contact. </p><p>“So sorry,” Aziraphale said, getting his bearings again. “I seem to have lost my footing. What a rude young man.” </p><p>Crowley squeezed his arm again and then let go. He cleared his throat. “Not a problem. This the place?” </p><p>The restaurant smelled delicious, redolent of pork and spices, and it was warm and welcoming. Aziraphale and Crowley were seated at a table near the window, and Aziraphale ordered and began his ritual mixing ginger, soy sauce and vinegar with a fresh set of chopsticks. Crowley rested his head on his hand in a lackadaisical display, but his eyes were intently focused on Aziraphale’s movements. He felt observed, but not in a threatening way. It was nice to be the center of Crowley’s attention. </p><p>The server brought their food, and Aziraphale wiggled happily in his seat. It was such a delight: the hot soup, the savory filling and the chewy noodles. He ate several before noticing Crowley hadn’t even picked up his spoon.</p><p>“Please, my dear, you must try one.” </p><p>At his urging, Crowley complied, and Aziraphale was happy to note that he took several more without being pressed. It was, he felt, his duty as guardian angel to ensure that Crowley was eating enough. There were humans, he knew, who purposefully abstained from eating to very ill effect, but he didn’t know enough of Crowley to determine if this was another of his problems—undocumented by the field agent—or if he was simply not very interested in food today. Another mystery he trusted would be solved upon further acquaintance.  </p><p>When they had eaten their fill, Crowley flagged down the server and paid the cheque. They sipped the last of their tea and watched passersby out the window. </p><p>Crowley sighed, drawing one of his long fingers around the rim of his ceramic cup. </p><p>“Something troubling you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. </p><p>“You don’t want to hear about my problems.” </p><p>“But I do. I really don’t mind.” </p><p>“I . . . I’ve just been having some trouble at work lately, s’all.” </p><p>“You can tell me about it if you like.” </p><p>“I don’t want to bore you.” </p><p>“I wouldn’t find it boring.” Aziraphale glanced from under his eyelashes and offered a tentative smile. </p><p>“Well. You’ve probably heard of . . . the place where I work.”</p><p>Aziraphale nodded. “Oh?” </p><p>“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.” Crowley drummed his fingers on the table. “But what the hell. It’s my company. Sort of. It’s my mother’s technically, but I’ve been running daily operations for the past fifteen years. We’ve got an offer from a larger firm to buy us, create a blended board and a new company. This is just between us, of course.”  </p><p>“I won’t tell a soul. And . . . so I assume you’ll be out of a job?” Aziraphale leaned forward. Perhaps this was it, the opportunity to get the information he needed. </p><p>“Not me, but pretty much everyone else who works for us here in England, yeah. Over five hundred people in the factory, and then you think about their families and . . . some of them have been with us for generations.” He waved his hand and muttered something else under his breath that sounded like foul language. </p><p>“Oh dear. And is it going through? This, this—”</p><p>“Merger. Yeah. Or it will in about a month. Once my mother gets an idea in her head, it’s pretty much impossible to stop her. And as she’s the majority owner, there’s not much I can do about it.” </p><p>“And you’ve told her how you feel about the merger?” </p><p>“Told her? I’ve pleaded with her to reconsider, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.” </p><p>“Your mother sounds like a . . . difficult person.” </p><p>“Difficult isn’t the half of it.” Crowley took another sip of tea. “Wish this was whisky,” he said, audibly this time.  </p><p>“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale worried his bottom lip between his teeth. This was more complicated than he’d feared. He knew nothing of human finances or industry, nothing of how to thwart a business deal other than by performing a miracle, but the Binder of Protocols forbade those sorts of direct interventions, or rather, it appeared to except in certain circumstances, but only then with a waiver from his supervisor. He would have to do some additional research. </p><p>But then there was the obviously tense relationship between Crowley and his mother. Perhaps that was the more pressing issue.  </p><p>“Not your fault. But again, I appreciate the concern.” </p><p>“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” </p><p>Crowley gave him a rueful smile. “Okay. Yeah. And you ought to be getting back, I’m sure.” </p><p>“Oh yes. To my shop. Right you are.” </p><p>“More of a book collection, than a shop, really.” </p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips and sniffed. “I can’t help it if I have good taste.” </p><p>“You know, you’ve got a little bit of the devil in you, Ezra Fell.” </p><p>Aziraphale gasped and almost spilled his tea. “You take that back.” </p><p>“Kidding, kidding. You’re an angel.” </p><p>“Angel? Me? Of course not. What a preposterous suggestion! Never in my life have I—”</p><p>“Ezra, Ezra, I’m joking.” Crowley was smiling again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. They were a very interesting colour, sort of a tawny hazel, and once again Aziraphale was reminded of a cat—or perhaps a snake. He had always liked snakes. </p><p>“Of course. I knew that.” He fiddled nervously with the buttons on his waistcoat, which was pulled tightly across his full belly. Crowley watched him do that, too. </p><p>As they left the restaurant, Crowley slid his sunglasses back over his eyes, and Aziraphale immediately found himself missing them. The walk back was quieter, both of them lost in their thoughts. Crowley seemed somehow . . . deflated, or perhaps depressed. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it had been the talk of the merger and the imminent loss of jobs that had done it or the mention of his mother, but he found himself wanting the teasing Crowley back. There was something . . . not right about Crowley being sad. Aziraphale found he wanted to make him feel better, but he supposed that was a typical instinct for one’s guardian angel. The Binder of Protocols was rather mum on the subject of feelings. </p><p>When they arrived in front of the shop, Crowley seemed suddenly hesitant. “I . . . I was wondering if you’d like to do this again.” </p><p>“Again? Yes, I would like that very much.” </p><p>“Brill. I was thinking dinner, maybe? Or dancing?” Crowley hooked his thumbs back in his pockets and shrugged. </p><p>“Dancing! I haven’t been dancing in ages! Oh yes, let’s do.” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. He had fond memories of dancing from one of his last sojourns on Earth, where he had briefly been the member of a gentleman’s club that catered to men of Crowley’s sort. They had introduced him to a splendid dance called the gavotte, and he was eager to relive those memories. </p><p>“All right. This weekend, say Saturday?” </p><p>“I’ll be wearing my dancing shoes.” Aziraphale smiled to himself. He had found a lovely pair of smooth-soled shoes at one of the local thrift shops, and he couldn’t wait to wear them. Perhaps by then, he would have sorted through his confusion about the protocols and come up with a plan to help Crowley. </p><p>“I’ll pick you up at nine. Are you . . . you’ve been to a club, right?” Crowley looked suddenly unsure.</p><p>“Oh yes! I used to go quite frequently. I’m looking forward to it, my dear.” </p><p>“Uh. Okay. Great. I’ll see you then, angel.” </p><p>Aziraphale watched Crowley walk away, a fluttery feeling growing in his belly. He was terribly excited for the upcoming weekend and the prospect of truly getting to know the man he was entrusted to help. </p><p><i>My friend,</i> he thought to himself. <i>I finally have a friend.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. It's Electric</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So you’re really going out with this Ezra bloke tonight?” Anathema asked, standing in the doorway to Crowley’s bedroom, a half-drunk glass of wine in hand. She’d come over several hours before to bring some paperwork from the office, and the two of them had wound up splitting a bottle. It had done wonders to settle Crowley’s nerves, but now, with the prospect of seeing Ezra soon, Crowley couldn’t sit still.  </p>
<p>“Yeah.” He frowned down at the trousers he’d selected from his closet. Maybe they were a little too tight? But maybe that was a good thing? </p>
<p>“And you didn’t go out last night?” </p>
<p>Crowley adjusted the buttons on his top and frowned at the mirror, wondering if he should go for eye makeup or just leave it natural. He didn’t think Ezra would mind if he wore it. And he really felt much nicer with a bit of kohl, a hint of mascara to make his lashes more dramatic. “No.” </p>
<p>“I can’t remember the last time you didn’t text me hungover and complaining on a Saturday.” </p>
<p>Crowley scowled at her. “Ah, come on. I stay in sometimes. It can’t be that unusual.” </p>
<p>“I’ve been your PA, and your friend, for five years. Believe me, it is. So, what’s he like?” She took a sip of wine and settled into the red velvet dressing chair on the side of Crowley’s bed. </p>
<p>“He’s . . . sweet. A little old-fashioned. He’s older, I think, but not by much. He likes books and he’s . . . a bit of a curmudgeon, truth be told.” As Crowley spoke, he realised he’d never used adjectives like these before to describe anyone he’d ever dated. But it wasn’t weird or unusual. It wasn’t. It was new, but there was nothing wrong with new. He fiddled with the cosmetics on the top of his dresser, giving himself a quick once-over. After he was satisfied, he drew his hair back into a low ponytail and then, deciding against it, let it fall back around his shoulders. </p>
<p>“And you’re taking him to Hades?” Anathema raised an eyebrow at him. </p>
<p>“He said he likes to dance.” Still, not for the first time since their lunch, Crowley debated the wisdom of the upcoming venture. He didn’t quite understand why he was so drawn to the man; Ezra was nothing like his usual pickup. He wasn’t flashy, or rich, or young, or stylish—but he was interesting, and kind, and funny, and odd—but attractive in his own way. </p>
<p>He hadn’t planned to ask Ezra on a date, either, but as they’d wrapped up lunch, he’d realised he wanted to see him again. He had almost invited himself into the shop, but he wasn’t sure his company was wanted; if Ezra had work to do, he’d only be intruding. Then the idea had occurred to him and he had simply blurted it out. He had been surprised and not a little elated when Ezra said yes; he had worried he’d offended the man at lunch with his teasing. Ezra was far more sincere than the people he normally went out with. </p>
<p>“Wow,” said Anathema. </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“You’re smiling.” </p>
<p>“I am not.”</p>
<p>“You must really like this guy.” </p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” </p>
<p>Anathema crossed her long legs and smirked at him. “All right. Sure. But if you want my advice—”</p>
<p>“I don’t.” </p>
<p>“Don’t take him to Hades. That place is a scene, and from what you’ve told me about him, it’s not a good idea. If you really like him, take him to Angel’s Share.” </p>
<p>Angel’s Share was a gay bar and club that catered to a slightly older clientele—people in their thirties and up rather than twenties. People his age. Crowley winced. It wasn’t a place Crowley usually frequented, but . . . he supposed Anathema had a point. </p>
<p>“Hmm,” he said simply and, satisfied with his appearance, turned back to Anathema. “Well?” </p>
<p>“You look gorgeous. Now go out there and get your man.” </p>
<p>“He’s not my man.” Crowley rolled his eyes. </p>
<p>“But he will be!” Anathema called out, sing song behind him. “I’m always right about these things!” </p>
<p>Anathema fancied herself a little bit psychic. Crowley snorted and went in search of his coat.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>He arrived to collect Ezra in his temporary rental at a few minutes past nine. The bookseller was waiting for him in front of the shop, and Crowley was instantly glad he was planning to heed Anathema’s advice and not take him to Hades.<p>Ezra was dressed in his peculiarly old-fashioned style, but his coat was white and his tan trousers looked pressed. Instead of the brogues, he wore a pair of white, patent-leather dancing shoes. There was a blue ascot in place of a bowtie, and it looked as though he’d attempted to tame his mass of white-blond curls but had only partially succeeded. When he saw Crowley park and get out of the car, his face lit up in a disarming smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. </p>
<p>“My dear,” he said, “don’t you look smashing.” </p>
<p>“Ah, thanks,” Crowley said. “You look . . . nice as well.”  </p>
<p>“Thank you. See? I told you I’d found the perfect shoes!” He did a quick two step, looking so pleased with himself Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like a fool. </p>
<p>“You ready?” </p>
<p>“Oh yes. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” </p>
<p>“Me too.” </p>
<p>Ezra seemed in high spirits as they drove the short distance to the club. He had apparently been doing research for a special project all week and had some luck with it, and he’d also made a few acquisitions to his collection. Crowley listened and nodded, hoping that Ezra wouldn’t ask how the rest of his week had been. </p>
<p>When they pulled up to the valet entrance to Angel’s Share, Aziraphale suddenly grew quiet. He fiddled nervously with the front of his suit as Crowley handed the keys off and, when Crowley came round to open the car door to collect him, he left the car reluctantly. His blue eyes were wide as they took in the façade of the building—the rainbow flag, the neon blue sign, and the queue of patrons waiting to enter. </p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>“This is  . . . Angel’s Share.” </p>
<p>“Oh. Right.” The little misunderstanding at lunch. “Have you been?” </p>
<p>“No. I . . .” His expression faltered as he looked at the queue. “I’m not familiar with this particular establishment, I’m afraid.” </p>
<p>“Sorry, I should have asked. If you don’t like it here we can go somewhere else. Grab dinner instead? Or dessert? Anything you like.” Crowley raked a hand through his hair and shifted from foot to foot. </p>
<p>“No.” Ezra turned to him. “I’d like to stay. This should be very educational. Let’s go inside.” His smile returned, slightly hesitant. </p>
<p>With a hefty tip to the bouncer, they skipped the line (in spite of Ezra’s protests) and found themselves in the darkened interior of a smallish, crowded space. The music appeared to be eighties pop, and a very enthusiastic crowd filled the dance floor, singing along to the strains of “Come on Eileen.” Ezra looked slightly lost as Crowley led him towards the bar, his grip warm on Crowley’s arm.</p>
<p>“What would you like to drink, angel?” Crowley asked over his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Whatever you recommend,” Ezra replied. </p>
<p>“Something sweet?” Crowley guessed.</p>
<p>“That sounds perfect.”  </p>
<p>After they’d retrieved their drinks, the song changed again, this time to the Violent Femmes. </p>
<p>“I’ve always loved this song,” Crowley said, downing more than half of his G&amp;T in one go. Ezra watched him curiously. </p>
<p>“Be-bop,” Ezra said. “I confess I . . . I’m not very familiar with it.” </p>
<p>Crowley laughed. “Be-bop. Sometimes you sound like you’re straight out of the nineteenth century, angel.” </p>
<p>“Oh, don’t be silly. They didn’t have be-bop in the nineteenth century.” Aziraphale sipped his drink and smiled, a look of discovery and surprise on his face. “Mmm. This is delicious!” It was fascinating, watching his responses, the play of emotions on his face. As expressive as he was, Crowley was sure Ezra had probably never told a successful lie in his life. He took another full swallow, and then another.  </p>
<p>“I thought you’d like that, but don’t drink too fast, or it’ll go right to your head.” </p>
<p>“I can handle my alcohol quite well, thank you very much.” He prodded the cherry garnish with his finger and bit his lower lip. “Though I usually don’t drink such fancy concoctions. What is it called?” </p>
<p>“A fuzzy navel.” </p>
<p>“Oh my.” </p>
<p>“Just be glad I didn’t order you a screaming orgasm.” Before Ezra could reply, Crowley finished his drink and set it down on the edge of the bar as the intro to a slow song changed the atmosphere of the room. People coupled off, some leaving the dance floor in groups to refuel, which gave them an opening. Crowley took Ezra’s hand and pried his empty glass from the other.  </p>
<p>“You said you like to dance,” Crowley said, giving him a little tug. “So let’s dance.”   </p>
<p>Ezra came willingly enough, but once they’d found their own little sliver of space, he looked a bit lost. “I’ve . . . never done this sort of dancing before.” </p>
<p>“You said you liked to go to clubs.” Crowley was starting to comprehend that they’d had a bit of a misunderstanding. He hoped he hadn’t been wrong about everything.  </p>
<p>“Yes. I did say that, didn’t I? This wasn’t precisely the sort of dancing I meant. I feel a bit of a fish out of water, I’m afraid.” </p>
<p>“It’s not hard,” Crowley said. “You just sort of sway from side to side. Here, like this.” He wrapped his arms around Ezra and drew him closer, and Ezra seemed to take the hint. His arms settled around Crowley’s waist, and for a moment, Crowley couldn’t move. He liked having Ezra in his arms, solid and real, and so warm. He smelled good, too, that blend of bergamot, leather and a faint hint of peach on his breath from his drink. </p>
<p>“Oh,” Ezra breathed. </p>
<p>After a few stilted turns—and a few stepped-on toes—Ezra seemed to relax. The other dancers didn’t pay them any attention, all too wrapped up in their partners or friends, and Crowley found he really didn’t mind not being the center of attention, as long as he was the center of Ezra’s. He moved in closer, and as the song reached its crescendo, he gave Ezra a little twirl, steadying him at the end of it. This was not the in-the-club grinding that Crowley was used to; he felt ridiculous for even considering taking Ezra to Hades in the first place. Ezra deserved to be cared for, to be coaxed and . . . romanced. He smiled at Crowley, and Crowley grinned back, feeling slightly giddy with the possibilities. Anathema was going to be positively insufferable when he told her about tonight. </p>
<p>The slow song ended soon after, the music switching once again to an upbeat tempo, but Crowley was in no hurry to move, not with Ezra looking up at him like he’d hung the moon and stars. </p>
<p>“That was most agreeable,” Ezra finally said. “I find I don’t mind this sort of dancing at all.” </p>
<p>“Good,” Crowley said. “You do it well.” </p>
<p>“Oh, don’t flatter me!” Ezra gave his arm a playful swat. </p>
<p>“I’m not, angel. What do you want to do now?” Crowley leaned closer to ask. It was nearly impossible to hear with “99 Red Balloons” blasting in his ear.</p>
<p>“I’d like another one of those scrumptious drinks.” </p>
<p>Crowley took his hand again. “Your wish is my command.” </p>
<p>The night continued to go well. They had several more drinks, and though there were no more slow songs, Crowley persuaded Ezra to dance to a few with a faster beat. After a while, they found a vacant table with two chairs and claimed it to watch the other dancers. Most of the couples were queer with an even mix of men and women. Ezra seemed charmed by the scene, and Crowley couldn’t help wondering what his story was. He was obviously gay, but he didn’t seem interested in checking out the more attractive men in the place. He was almost . . . innocent in that regard. Instead of turning Crowley off, it made him even more curious. He’d always been curious to a fault. </p>
<p>“So have you always lived in London?” he asked, suddenly wishing they were in a quieter room. The bookshop, perhaps. </p>
<p>“Not always. I . . . I’ve moved around a bit, here and there. But I find I like London very well.” </p>
<p>“Well enough to open a shop.” </p>
<p>“Yes.” Ezra nodded and, after taking a sip of his drink, looked at Crowley from under his lashes.  </p>
<p>“Any family here?” </p>
<p>“No, no family at all, actually.” He gave Crowley a small smile. </p>
<p>“Shite, sorry, Ezra. I didn’t mean to pry.” </p>
<p>“Not at all, my dear. I know you must understand complicated family situations.” </p>
<p>“Yeah. I do. As you know, my mother and I don’t see eye to eye. My father passed away when I was eighteen. He drowned.” He didn’t know why he blurted it out. This wasn’t really the time or the place for sob stories, but he didn’t want Ezra to feel like he was alone. </p>
<p>“Oh, my dear. I’m very sorry to hear that.” </p>
<p>Crowley shrugged, grateful to the alcohol for blunting the old ache. “Thanks. It was a long time ago.” </p>
<p>“That doesn’t mean you can’t still be sad about it, does it?” </p>
<p>“No, I guess not. Hey, I—ah, do you want to dance again?” He was eager to return the evening to some semblance of what it had been before he’d made everything depressing. He had never been terribly good at deep conversation; he never liked to share too much of himself, lest other people be turned off or horrified by what they learned.  </p>
<p>Ezra looked towards the dance floor. “What are they doing? Some sort of country dance?” he asked, his voice full of interest.  </p>
<p>“It’s the Electric Slide,” Crowley muttered. “An abomination.” </p>
<p>“It looks fun! Can we?” </p>
<p>Not able to resist Ezra’s enthusiasm, Crowley allowed himself to be pulled along and suffered the indignity of joining the front of the group. Ezra caught on almost immediately, and he skipped and clapped with a gusto that soon attracted the attention of the rest of the crowd. </p>
<p>A few people on the sidelines hooted and cheered as Ezra led the movements, and Crowley took the opportunity to escape from the dance floor and watch. Ezra was a natural in spite of his stockiness, and he gave Crowley a cheeky smile as he wriggled his thick hips. Crowley watched with surprise and wonder. He never would have guessed when the night began this is where they would end up, but he supposed five fuzzy navels and a latent enthusiasm for line dancing were a potent combination.  </p>
<p>“Is that your partner?” a woman with short, spiky black hair and a nose ring asked him. “He’s really something.” </p>
<p>“That he is,” Crowley said, not bothering to correct her. He was still trying to figure out how it was possible that Ezra had gone his entire life without hearing the Electric Slide, but it fit with the rest of his persona. </p>
<p>The song ended, and Ezra joined him again, laughing and smiling as though he was having the time of his life. “What wonderful fun! My dear, thank you so much for bringing me here tonight. I’ve had a marvelous time.” </p>
<p>“I’m glad,” Crowley said. He was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges from the gin and tonics, and he couldn’t help inching closer to Ezra, drawn by his warmth. He set down his glass and brushed the backs of his knuckles against Ezra’s cheek. “I liked watching you out there.” </p>
<p>Ezra swallowed and licked his lips, his gaze darting from Crowley’s eyes back to his mouth. “You did?” He looked like a man waiting to be kissed. </p>
<p>“I want to kiss you.” </p>
<p>“You do?” </p>
<p>Crowley nodded and leaned forward slowly, giving Ezra time to back away if that was what he wanted. His lips, when they met Crowley’s, were pliant and warm. He made a little shocked, hungry sound in the back of his throat, and Crowley took that as a signal to deepen the contact. He teased the seam of Ezra’s lips with his tongue and, when they parted, sought entry. Ezra opened his mouth and his hands clutched at Crowley’s sides. He tasted like sweet peaches, and Crowley wanted more. This, he knew how to do—no talking, no bad memories, nothing but the feel of Ezra’s panting breaths against his mouth. He took Ezra’s face in both of his hands, kissing him firmly and pressing their bodies together. </p>
<p>Ezra suddenly froze, his soft lips going firm and immovable.   </p>
<p>It took a moment for Crowley’s body to catch up with his mind, but when it did, he pulled away. </p>
<p>“I . . . oh dear,” Ezra said, his eyes suddenly shimmering. “I ought not to have done that.” </p>
<p>“Why not?” </p>
<p>“Oh, it’s against all of the rules. I . . . I’m so sorry.” </p>
<p>Crowley frowned, trying to make sense out of the quick change in events. He had been sure that Ezra wanted him; he had been positive he was eager for the kiss, but something had changed, and now Crowley couldn’t tell whether he had read the situation wrong. Perhaps he had forced himself on Ezra while he was intoxicated. The thought made him recoil with horror. “Shite, no, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to kiss you.” </p>
<p>Ezra wrung his hands. “I fear I have given you the wrong impression. I . . . I very much would like to be your friend, but I’m afraid anything more than that is quite out of the question.”  </p>
<p>“I see,” Crowley said, trying to keep the sting of the rejection out of his voice. He would respect Ezra’s wishes, of course, but he felt hollow, as if the sea of possibilities that had only moments ago seemed limitless had dried up, leaving him with nothing. “That’s—that’s okay. I understand.” </p>
<p>“No, my dear, I don’t think you do. I can’t explain it. I am not permitted.” </p>
<p>“What are you, a priest or something?” </p>
<p>Ezra shook his head. “Not precisely. But you might say that my circumstances are not dissimilar to those of a priest.” </p>
<p>Crowley, who realised he was still holding onto Ezra’s hips, let him go. “Wait a second—are you in a cult?” It made a strange sort of sense—Ezra’s old-fashioned dress and behavior, his ambiguous statement about not having a family at all. Maybe he was fleeing some sort of abusive religious sect who had punished him for being queer? </p>
<p>Ezra simply shook his he again. “I wish I could make you understand, but there are some things that aren’t mine to tell.” </p>
<p>From the firm set of the other man’s lips, the little frown wrinkling his forehead, Crowley knew he had no choice but to accept it if he wanted to keep Ezra in his life. “All right. Maybe we should call it a night? Let me get you a lift home, angel.” </p>
<p>“You’ve been drinking, my dear.”  </p>
<p>There it was again, the endearment that had made Crowley think there might be something between them. Clearly Ezra only meant it under the guise of friendship. “I’m going to leave the car here. I’ll get you a ride.” He pulled out his phone and brought up the ride-sharing app. </p>
<p>“Thank you. What will you do?” Ezra looked worried. </p>
<p>“I . . . think I’ll take a walk, clear my head.” He had a lot to think about, after all. If Ezra was in some sort of trouble, Crowley would figure out a way to help him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Yellow Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A complete and total disaster: that’s what the night had been. Aziraphale paced the length of his bookshop, then sat back down at his desk chair and stared at the Binder of Protocols, then paced some more. His cocoa had grown cold long before and now, undrunk and congealing, served as a reminder of his great distress. Never since he had first discovered cocoa had Aziraphale failed to drink it. He touched his lips, but when he did so, all he could think of was the kiss. Crowley had kissed him. </p><p>Crowley fancied him. He had intended the previous evening to be what the humans referred to as a <i>date.</i>  Aziraphale had missed all the signs. Perhaps it was the result of being away from Earth for so long. </p><p>Never had a human approached him in such a way. He had mixed with all sorts of people during blessings over the past several thousand years, but even when enjoying human customs like eating or dancing, he never had he gotten close enough to anyone to even consider such a thing as kissing. </p><p>There were many difficult to decipher passages in the Binder. However, on several points it was explicitly clear: guardians should never reveal their true nature to the human they were entrusted to protect, and guardians should never, upon any circumstances, enter into a romantic or sexual relationship with a human. Ever since the Nephilim and their subsequent eradication during the Flood, this prohibition had been well-known both Above and Below; indeed, Aziraphale had hardly given it a second thought until the previous night.</p><p>The kiss hadn’t been unpleasant. It had been . . . very nice indeed. He touched his lips again and tried not to remember Crowley’s taste. The instant they had connected, Aziraphale’s corporation had responded almost against his will. He had felt warm, tingly, and unmistakably alive. </p><p>That train of thought would do him no good. He was here to help Crowley, to guide him; he had been so certain things were going well until this new development. And would Crowley now avoid him as a spurned lover might? It seemed audacious to even think of himself as a lover, but the disappointment in Crowley’s eyes—masked quickly—had been impossible to miss. Aziraphale had read enough romance to know how fragile human egos could be when it came to unrequited feelings. </p><p>And this was certainly unrequited. It had to be, because Aziraphale would be in grave trouble if it were not; and moreover, Crowley was used to pursuing sexual relations with a multitude of willing partners, as his dossier so conspicuously documented. Aziraphale was nothing special to him, and he would not be upset for long.</p><p>Satisfied he had adequately resolved the situation in his own mind, he closed the Binder of Protocols, stood and stretched, and made his way to the front of the shop. He was debating whether to open at the regular time or simply stay closed for the day when the bell rang. </p><p>His heart skipped without him wishing it to, and he frowned. There was no reason to believe Crowley would be paying him a visit today. All the same, he hurried to the door and was greeted by a young man wearing a green hat and holding a large bouquet of yellow roses. “Delivery for Mr. Ezra Fell.” </p><p>“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, taking the flowers in one hand and plucking the card from inside the bunch with the other. The delivery man departed as he began to read. </p><p>
  <i>Ezra, I’m sorry if I came on too strong and hope we can still be friends. Please forgive me and use these flowers to brighten the shop. I’ll see you soon. – Crowley.</i>
</p><p>They were really quite lovely. Aziraphale took a deep inhale of the sweet, fresh scent of the flowers and closed the door. Yellow, he knew from extensive reading, was for friendship. And wasn’t that just perfect; Crowley was accepting Aziraphale’s stipulation. He even seemed to be planning to visit again soon. He smiled as he arranged the flowers in an old crystal vase, tamping down the errant thought that red would have been even lovelier.</p><p>Several days passed, during which Aziraphale was tempted to use Angelic Sight to check on Crowley but wasn’t sure if it would be permitted given all of the intricate stipulations in the Binder. The last thing he needed was a demerit now, or for Gabriel to have any reason to check in on how things were progressing. He was rather cross with himself for not having the forethought to get Crowley’s mobile phone number, and he had no idea how to procure it. The thought did cross his mind that he should perhaps get one of the gadgets, if not for his own personal use than for the sake of blending in with the rest of the humans. Then, Crowley would be able to reach him if he was in trouble. Perhaps he would be able to discover Crowley’s number on this mystical ‘Internet.’ </p><p>In any case, Aziraphale was getting restless to make contact again; after all, he had done enough reading and research and had several ideas regarding how to stop the merger going through. The more he thought about it, the more he understood that the ramifications of the event would impact far more individuals than Crowley himself. </p><p>Deciding that the first order of business was to purchase a phone, he went out to the shops. </p><p>Everything in the store was white: the floor, the ceilings, the walls. The devices were smooth and sleek and shiny, and Aziraphale dithered behind a group of teenagers who were playing some game or other, laughing and shoving at each other for a turn. </p><p>Finally, a salesperson approached him and, with a friendly and cheerful voice, asked if he needed help. </p><p>“Why yes, young lady,” Aziraphale began. “I’m looking to purchase one of these mobile phones.” </p><p>“Okay, do you think you want a thirty-two gig? I doubt you’ll need a sixty-four unless you have a lot of videos and music.” </p><p>“A gig?” Aziraphale frowned at her. “Is that some sort of musical nomenclature?” </p><p>“Have you ever had a mobile before?” The salesperson smiled, though her expression was now a little pained. </p><p>“Ah. No. I’m a bit of a Luddite, I’m afraid.” </p><p>The young lady began speaking at him very slowly, as though he were hard of hearing, while still using words Aziraphale didn’t understand. He was starting to regret his decision.  </p><p>An hour later, overwhelmed and in need of a strong glass of whisky, he left the store with a shiny white phone in a bag along with various accoutrements he’d been assured were necessary to keep the device usable. Luckily, he’d been able to miracle a payment for the entire package; these modern conveniences were ridiculously expensive. Still, he was pleased with his perseverance in spite of the difficult start. </p><p>He was almost back to the shop when he noticed a distinctly black car parked nearby, and his heart thumped in his chest. </p><p>“Crowley?” </p><p>The man in question was leaning against the front door, or lounging to be more exact, his fiery red hair cut into a much shorter, more angular arrangement than before. His suit was dark grey instead of the characteristic black, and he wore dark sunglasses. </p><p>At the sound of his name, he pushed off the building and ambled closer. “Hello, Ezra.” </p><p>“How good it is to see you. Have you been waiting long?” </p><p>Crowley blew out a raspberry. “Ah, nah. Only a few minutes. Had some free time this afternoon so thought I’d drop by. Figured you might have popped out for lunch, but I see you were doing some shopping.” </p><p>Aziraphale nodded. “It was a bit more complicated a task than I expected, but I have purchased my first mobile phone.” </p><p>“Need some help setting it up?” </p><p>“Oh yes, please.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a grateful smile. “It was a rather trying venture, truth be told.” </p><p>“I bet. Those salespeople can be ruthless.” Crowley followed him inside, and Aziraphale was almost giddy with the relief to have him back. He supposed it was one of the side effects of being a guardian angel, wanting to be close to the one you were guarding. </p><p>“Not so much ruthless as impertinent. I don’t . . . look quite so old, do I?” Aziraphale fiddled with the buttons on his coat. He’d never given much thought to his appearance on Earth. He wasn’t a vain creature, and he was pleased enough with his corporation. It was comfortable, if a bit soft. However, the way the young woman had spoken to him today, as though he were an aging, senile human, gave him pause. He hoped he didn’t look so to Crowley. </p><p>“You don’t look old, no. I think you look . . . good,” Crowley said, lingering on the last word. </p><p>Aziraphale could feel his face flushing though he had certainly not given it permission to do so. “I do feel a bit silly for asking.” </p><p>“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Crowley smiled at him, removing his glasses. Aziraphale noticed with a pang that he looked very much like he hadn’t slept. There were dark circles under his eyes. </p><p>“Yes, of course.” </p><p>“And I see you got the flowers.” </p><p>Crowley gestured to where the roses sat in pride of place next to the rarely used register. They still looked perfect, thanks to a small miracle, and they filled the musty shop with a faint, sweet aroma. </p><p>“Yes, I did. That was very thoughtful of you, but indeed it wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t . . . offended by what happened the other night. I hope you know that.” </p><p>Crowley’s face was unreadable. “I thought I’d better be safe than sorry. You were right, anyway, that we best not. So, let’s just forget all about it, shall we? Let’s get your phone sorted.” </p><p>“All right.” </p><p>They moved toward the back of the bookstore, where Aziraphale kept his personal office. His desk was a bit cluttered, and he moved several books off the sofa for them both to sit. They arranged themselves comfortably side by side, and Aziraphale handed over the bag, hoping that Crowley could make some sense of the jumble inside. </p><p>Crowley took the device out and began removing it from its glossy white box while Aziraphale looked on. Crowley had very nimble fingers. Aziraphale remembered what they had felt like cupping his jaw as they kissed. His profile was very handsome, if one was observing it as purely a matter of aesthetics.  </p><p>“Your hair looks quite different. Why did you have it cut?” </p><p>“I was tired of hearing about it from my mother.” </p><p>“She criticises your appearance?” Aziraphale wasn’t surprised, given what Crowley had revealed so far. </p><p>“Daily. She has a somewhat old-fashioned view of what men and women ought to wear and how we ought to behave.” </p><p>“You mean a prejudiced view.” </p><p>“Got it in one, angel. Whereas I,” Crowley continued, fiddling with a little wire that plugged into the bottom of the phone, “like to experiment a bit. Blend things around.” </p><p>“I think you have quite a lovely sense of style. I know that there are people who feel they were born in the wrong body, so to speak. Is that how you feel?” </p><p>“Not exactly.” Crowley shrugged. “It’s complicated. I don’t feel entirely male or female, I suppose, but I don’t like to be thought of as deficient. Does that make sense?”  </p><p>Aziraphale nodded, and oh, how he longed to share the truth with Crowley right then, to tell him of how closely his perspective aligned with his own. To confirm that in Heaven, all beings were sexless unless they chose to not be so, and there was no judgement based on such categories. But there were other, powerful hierarchies in Heaven, and breaking the rules could have devastating repercussions. Moreover, Aziraphale knew that humans judged him in a certain way based on the aesthetic choices he made while on Earth. It had never bothered him; in fact, he had cultivated his persona very carefully over the millennia, feeling a kinship and protectiveness with the queer human community, who had always welcomed him into their midst. </p><p>He couldn’t exactly say all of this to Crowley, but he had the feeling that he had to choose his response very carefully. “It does. I can relate to what you say. I’ve often felt like I don’t fit in. Where I’m from, originally, there’s not much respect for individual thought, as it were. I haven’t always been treated with kindness or respect.” And wasn’t that terrible to say—to admit? Aziraphale swallowed and almost winced, waiting for lightning to strike. Of course nothing happened. No one would be listening to him, to this angel of no consequence having a conversation with a human. </p><p>Crowley stopped working, and his brow furrowed. “Fuck, Ezra, is that why you left? Are you in hiding?” </p><p>“Hiding? Goodness, no. I . . . I’m quite safe here, Crowley. You mustn’t worry about me. And for what it’s worth, I think you are perfect just the way you are.” </p><p>Several beats of silence passed between them, during which Crowley looked at him, and he looked at Crowley, neither of them seeming to know what to say. Aziraphale realised they were sitting very close together, so near he could feel Crowley’s body heat. </p><p>“Thank you. I appreciate that.” </p><p>“You’re welcome.” </p><p>Another beat, and Crowley’s attention was drawn down to the device in his hands. “I . . . I’ve got your phone working. See? Here’s the icon you press if you want to make a call.” </p><p>“Oh, it has a little phone on it. I see.” </p><p>“And here’s your list of contacts. You can add people manually or, if they text you, you can do it that way as well. Shall I add myself, to show you?” </p><p>Aziraphale’s throat felt dry. “Yes, please.” </p><p>“Done,” Crowley said with a flourish. “And I have your number as well. Now let me show you how to take a picture.” </p><p>“Wait, what are all of these delightful little creatures?” </p><p>“Those would be emojis, angel.” </p><p>Aziraphale wiggled in his seat, pleased the nickname had stuck, even if Crowley’s attentions were no longer romantic. “I absolutely love them. Oh, pears! I love pears. And a peach!” </p><p>“Don’t go sending that to just anyone,” Crowley said, a hint of laughter in his voice. “You won’t get the results you expect.” </p><p>They spent another hour or so reviewing the basics, and by the time Crowley stood to leave, Aziraphale was feeling a bit more confident in using it. Crowley had seemed in good spirts as well, but when they paused at the door for goodbyes, his shoulders seemed to droop. The air shifted, and Aziraphale could almost taste the sour, heavy aura of depression. </p><p>“The meeting with the other company – is that still going forward?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.</p><p>“Yeah. And I’m off to Tadfield next week to talk to the factory manager and explain that he and everyone he oversees will soon be out of a job. Should be fun.” </p><p>“That’s simply awful. Is there nothing that can be done?” </p><p>Crowley slid his sunglasses back onto his face. “I’m doing what I can. Might be able to grandfather in some cash settlements for the workers. My accountant is looking into it.” </p><p>“I’m so sorry, my dear. You . . . please know that you can always come talk to me, if you need someone. If you need anything.” </p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t make out Crowley’s expression with the dark glasses hiding his eyes, but he could feel the air shift again, some of the sadness lifting. He wondered if what Crowley truly needed was someone on his side. </p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind. And you — you have my number, yeah?” </p><p>“In my trusty new mobile. Yes.” Aziraphale patted his pocket absently. He was going to have to figure out a way to carry the thing; it utterly ruined the line of his trousers. “But I promise I won’t send you any peaches.” He still hadn’t managed to get Crowley to explain that little comment, but from the fresh smile on his face, he had made a good joke. </p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t mind.”  </p><p>“Technology is so confusing,” Aziraphale murmured, watching Crowley slink back to his car. Many things on Earth were confusing these days.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Nowhere Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Please be advised that this chapter contains suicidal ideation. If this is triggering for you, you may want to click back now. Crowley is going through a bit of a rough time – but it will get better.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>I was thinking about paying a visit to the Portrait Gallery today. Would you like to meet there at lunch, if you can get away?</i> </p><p>The text came just as Crowley was getting in the shower. He’d been out the night before and had come home alone, earlier than usual, but he still had a moderate hangover, and the thought of spending an afternoon strolling a museum normally wouldn’t have appealed. An afternoon with Ezra, however . . .</p><p><i>I’ll be there</i> he shot back quickly, smiling as the immediate response came back.</p><p>
  <i> :-) Wonderful. I’ll meet you in the atrium. Wear comfortable shoes!</i>
</p><p>Crowley couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little as he started to lather his hair. Ezra often seemed as though he was trying to care for Crowley, which was sweet, really, because most often it was Ezra himself who needed care. His understanding of the modern world was spotty, at best; Crowley’d had to rescue him from the self-checkout the previous day, and the day before that, Crowley had spent another hour explaining how to order food delivery on Ezra’s new mobile.  </p><p>The hot water sluiced down his back and washed the soap away, and Crowley realised that they’d seen each other almost every day during the previous week, usually meeting up for a quick lunch (Ezra’s choice) or spending time in St James’s Park feeding the ducks (Crowley brought the bread). Once there had been wine in the back of the bookshop, which had been quite a challenge to Crowley’s self-control, because tipsy Ezra was affectionate, sitting so close to Crowley their thighs touched. Crowley had to remind himself very firmly that nothing could happen between them, but another, unfamiliarly optimistic side of himself said maybe, if he could let Ezra work out whatever trauma he’d obviously endured, maybe, with time, that would change. He didn’t think Ezra was immune to him, either. There was definitely an electricity between them. He just wasn’t sure if Ezra recognized it for what it was. Crowley was marginally sure that Ezra was a virgin who’d grown up in a cult and only recently escaped the compound. Nothing else made sense, and of course, a person who was in hiding would deny they were in hiding – wouldn’t they? </p><p>Crowley wasn’t usually a patient person. He thought he could try to be patient for Ezra.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>At a little past noon, Crowley found Ezra standing with his hands behind his back, gazing up at the ceiling, which was not remarkable, with a little smile on his face. That was another aspect of Ezra’s personality that was so very endearing: his delight in the ordinary. He wore a powder-puff blue bowtie rather than his usual tartan, which brought out the colour of his eyes, and Crowley could have kicked himself for being so ridiculous as to notice such a thing.<p>“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Ezra smiled. </p><p>“I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Meeting I couldn’t get out of.” His personal accountant, Newt, was a nice guy, but always had computer issues. He was a whiz at numbers, however, and he seemed to have caught Anathema’s eye, though Crowley had no idea when that had happened. The way the two of them had been flirting over tea and biscuits suggested it wasn’t a recent development. </p><p>“Oh, no, not at all. I already purchased your ticket.” </p><p>“You didn’t have to do that.” </p><p>“Nonsense. It was my idea and it’s my treat, as it were. Shall we?” </p><p>Ezra offered his arm. When Crowley hesitated to take it, his smile faltered, and he began to walk toward the entrance. Crowley cursed silently; he hadn’t meant to offend, but he sometimes had difficulty with the touching stuff. He didn’t think he’d be able to walk arm-in-arm with Ezra without making an idiot out of himself. And he ticked off yet another box for definitely-odd-possibly-cultish behavior. </p><p>Luckily, Ezra didn’t seem to dwell on it. He quickly became animated again as they entered the first gallery. Most of the paintings were of old white men, usually not of much interest, but Crowley found himself intrigued as Aziraphale described the history behind the pictures. He was especially, and not surprisingly, excited when he came across an author he loved. Virginia Woolf and James Joyce were both met with a pleased flutter of hands and a flushed, happy expression. And then there were the Wilde paintings. Crowley was partial to Wilde himself, but he was pretty sure Ezra was a superfan. </p><p>“Oh Oscar,” Ezra whispered as he came to stand in front of a portrait of Wilde with Lord Alfred Douglas. “Bosie, you silly fool.” </p><p>“I could think of another word or two to describe him.” </p><p>“Oscar was such a kind soul. Always willing to help a friend.” Ezra shook his head, his eyes slightly misty. He put his hands behind his back and sighed. </p><p>“You sound like you knew him,” Crowley said, shoulder to shoulder now, admiring Ezra’s profile rather than the painting.</p><p>“Ah . . . yes, well. I’ve read several biographies. The Sturgis is quite good, better than the Ellmann.” </p><p>Crowley smirked. “I’ll take your word for it.” </p><p>“I refuse to believe you dislike reading as much as you say.” </p><p>“Refuse all you like. I’m a lover, not a reader.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Ezra said, sniffing primly as his eyes darted to Crowley’s face. “Are you?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Are you . . . do you have any . . . lovers? Currently.” Ezra swallowed, his cheeks faintly flushed. </p><p>Crowley rocked back on his heels and whistled through his teeth. “Pretty personal question. You mean, like, today?” </p><p>“Never mind. Forget I asked that, please. It’s none of my business at all.” </p><p>But it could be, Crowley wanted to say. If Ezra were anyone else, that’s what he would have said. He would tell him that since they’d met, he hadn’t wanted to fuck anyone else. He could say those things, but if he did it would only make Ezra withdraw, flustered and confused, and call into question his intentions as a friend. That was the last thing Crowley wanted. It was like balancing on a tightrope: one false move, and splat. </p><p>“It’s fine. And the answer is no, by the way. Not recently. Here, let’s take a look at this one.” Crowley led Ezra away from the Wilde by his elbow, feeling the tension in him ease as the subject changed and the next history lesson began. </p><p>It was a very pleasant afternoon.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The next day, not so much.<p>Crowley was due in Tadfield at eleven for his briefing with the factory manager, Steven Shadwell, known somewhat fondly, somewhat ironically, as Seargent Shadwell to his inferiors. The meeting went about as well as was expected. </p><p>‘What d’ya mean, laddie? Yer na tellin’ me we’ve only got three weeks?” Shadwell’s bushy eyebrows drew together. They were sat in his small, cluttered office, the walls of which were adorned with photographs of Shadwell, and his father before him, and his father before that, worn and faded with time. Some of the photographs featured Crowley’s father, and some his grandfather. Three generations of Shadwells and Crowleys working together. </p><p>“That’s right. Yeah.” Crowley scrubbed the back of his head. </p><p>“I’ve worked fer yer family for forty-five years.” </p><p>“I know. And you’ll be rewarded for your service.” The man had been close to retirement, anyway, Crowley tried to tell himself. </p><p>“What about the rest of the poor buggers in this town, the ones that depend on this place? Arthur Young’s got another one on the way, and he’s already got two boys, Adam and Warlock—terrors, they are, but good lads. There’s Mary Loquacious—her parents just moved in with her, mother has cancer, she’s got three little ones. And then there’s—” </p><p>Crowley’s tongue felt rubbery and heavy in his mouth as he listened to Shadwell rattle off an increasingly dire list of issues that would turn into full-blown crises if the heads of families lost their jobs. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t known, but it was worse hearing it. He had purposefully avoided coming to the factory for weeks, but he and his family had benefited from the labor of these people for their entire lives. </p><p>Shadwell finally seemed to have exhausted himself. He sank back into his musty chair and mopped his forehead with a greying kerchief. </p><p>Crowley cleared his throat. He’d never heard the man so eloquent before. Never knew he cared so much about other people. He was such a gruff, difficult bastard most of the time. It was humbling. “We’ll be giving out bonuses to tide people over until they can find other work.” </p><p>Shadwell sucked his teeth, his rheumy eyes calculating. “Aye. But what if they can’t?”  </p><p>The trafficky drive back to London only made Crowley feel worse.  </p><p>He clenched the steering wheel in both hands as he attempted to maneuver around a lorry. The merger meeting was rapidly approaching, but it was merely a formality at this point. Everything had been discussed, decided, and agreed upon by his mother and the company lawyers, the paperwork all drawn up. He would just need to sign on the dotted line, sign away the jobs of hundreds of people, sign away his legacy – the one he had never wanted. The one he might have been proud of, if he had ever been given a choice. </p><p>Could he have chosen differently? </p><p>He hadn’t thought so when he was eighteen. Not when they found his father’s body.  </p><p>He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. What he needed was a drink. </p><p>He hadn’t meant to wind up at Hades, but that’s where he found himself some hours later, rat-arsed, slouched into a corner booth with a bottle of whisky while all around him, the young, beautiful and oblivious people of London danced. He could already feel the hangover starting behind his eyeballs, and the sour taste in his mouth was a warning that if he drank much more, he’d soon be legless. He wasn’t sure whether that would be a bad thing. He was useless as it was—worthless. His mother thought so, and she was right. He hadn’t been able to save a single job. Had probably never really helped another person in his entire life, except himself. </p><p>“Hey Crowley,” came a harsh, familiar voice over his shoulder. “Haven’t seen you around lately.” </p><p>Beez reeked of cigarettes. They were wearing a three-piece black suit, and their black hair was sleek and slicked behind their ears. </p><p>Crowley murmured his hello and watched, uncaring, as Beez claimed the seat across from him and snagged the whisky, taking a slug right out of the bottle. </p><p>“Where you been?” </p><p>“Around.” Crowley was distantly aware he was pronouncing his vowels with too much emphasis. </p><p>“It’s not like you to disappear for so long. I thought you’d given up this fabulous life.”  </p><p>“Ha,” Crowley said, trying for breezy. “Not yet.” </p><p>“Well, that’s good on you, mate. There’s some pretty pickings tonight.” Beez leered at a young woman nearby, dressed in red leather pants and a skimpy top. Crowley reached for the bottle. He had known Beez for years; they had partied together, seduced people together, but they’d never had a serious conversation. </p><p>“Hmph,” he said, noncommittal. </p><p>“Are you up for some fun? There’s a couple with their eyes on you.” </p><p>Crowley looked at Beez, his eyes crossing, and then turned to see two slutty goths, swaying together. The guy looked very familiar, but no name came to mind. Didn’t matter. They’d probably hooked up before. He looked like Crowley’s type. Maybe that was what was missing. He hadn’t had such a long dry spell in years, and what he needed was to fuck this whole situation in Tadfield and all the memories of his father out of his mind. </p><p>He stood, swaying slightly, giving Beez a wave and permission to finish the bottle, if they wanted. The music pounded in his ears, and his gut curdled. He had forgotten to eat again – but the thought of food was repellent. He wanted to drink more, to dance, to fuck someone—two someones. He wanted to forget his own name. </p><p>The dance floor beckoned, and he started walking toward the goths, putting as much swagger in his step as he could muster given the circumstances. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.</p><p>His phone buzzed in his back pocket for the third time that night. It was like a pesky fly he couldn’t get rid of, so he fished it out, only a few paces away from the goths, intending to turn it off, but pausing when he saw the name on the screen. </p><p>
  <i>Please call me back, my dear. I’m terribly worried about you. How did it go today?</i>
</p><p>There were other texts from earlier. They were all from Ezra, chronicling his increasing worry. Ah shite, Crowley had been supposed to show up for dinner, hadn’t he? But he’d gotten drunk at a shady pub instead and come to Hades like an arsehole. </p><p>“Fuck,” Crowley said. </p><p>“That’s the idea,” the guy said, nibbling his bottom lip ring. Crowley blinked at him, realising with some surprise he’d walked right into a slutty goth sandwich. The girl put her blunt, black-glossed fingernails against his chest and scratched lightly. </p><p>“Do you remember me?” the guy asked. “From the Heaven and Hell party?” He ground his half-hard cock against Crowley’s arse. </p><p>“Sorry,” Crowley said. “I don’t.” He tried to dance, but his hips weren’t working right. His phone vibrated again. </p><p>“That’s okay,” said the guy. “You’ll remember this time.” </p><p>Crowley closed his eyes, his head swimming. He leaned away from the girl, who was trying to kiss his neck. She didn’t smell right—not at all like leather or Earl Grey tea. “I think I gotta go.” </p><p>He didn’t know where he was headed, only that he had to get out. Really, he had to get away from himself, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? </p><p>The night was cold, but it did little to cut through the hazy fog of his mind. Crowley stumbled slightly on a crack in the cement as he walked with no destination. He wanted . . . he wanted to go back in time. If he had been with his father that night, everything would have been different. </p><p>He should have been there.  </p><p>He wanted to be another person, the kind who would be good for a man like Ezra, not a fuckup who couldn’t even bother to show up when he’d promised. Again and again, history repeating. He couldn’t seem to help himself. </p><p>The Bentley was parked in the side lot. Crowley left it there and walked on, none too steady on his feet. A literal walking disaster.  </p><p>He walked for a while, until he came to a bridge. His favorite bridge, the Tower. It was late, and there were no pedestrians; only a couple of cars drove by. He leaned over the thick railing to look down at the Thames flowing underneath, oily black in the night. He had always disliked the water, even before his father’s death. A chill shuddered through him at the thought of how cold it probably was, but underneath that, in a dark corner of his mind, he wondered . . . </p><p>“Help!” </p><p>The sudden call pierced the still night, and Crowley was instantly alert, his eyes straining to make out the shape splashing below. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.  </p><p>Someone was in the water. Someone was thrashing, trying to get to the surface, but all Crowley could see was a mass of flailing limbs. </p><p>Without another thought, Crowley shrugged out of his leather jacket and dropped it behind him even as he scrambled onto the thick concrete rail. He kicked off his boots and then he was jumping, falling and landing with the cold shock of the water searing his spine. The current was stronger than he expected it to be, but pushing the thought out of his mind, he began to swim toward the cries for help. His heart felt like it might burst with fear and adrenaline. Finally, he was in arm’s reach, and he grasped the back of the person’s sweater – it was a young woman, but she was in such a fit of terror, she wasn’t aware that someone was trying to help her. She continued to thrash, and Crowley realised that if he didn’t do something quickly, she’d take them both under. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” he yelled, trying to be heard over the sounds of the water. “Stay calm. I’m going to get us to shore.” </p><p>The young woman screamed and grabbed onto him, and her added weight and frantic movements made things worse. Crowley kicked, sputtering to the surface, gasping for breath. </p><p>“Be still!” he yelled again, right into her ear. “Be still and let me help you!”  </p><p>The woman went limp in his arms, finally, and with one arm wrapped firmly around her back, Crowley began to kick toward the riverbank. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, but his body had started to tire under the strain and too much alcohol in his system. He closed his eyes and swore, trying to focus on anything but the searing pain in his lungs, his aching arms. He wasn’t sure they were going to make it.  </p><p>And then, like a miracle, someone was there, pulling him out of the water, taking his burden away. </p><p>“Crowley,” a familiar voice cried. “Oh, my dear!” </p><p>Somehow, they were on land. He couldn’t understand it. He blinked, water dripping in his eyes, and went slack-jawed at the sight of Ezra carrying the young woman like she weighed nothing. She coughed and sputtered, and Ezra whispered into her ear, then set her down and wrapped his overcoat around her shoulders. Upon closer inspection, Crowley realised the woman was no more than a teenager, he shoulders thin and almost frail. In contrast, Ezra was bright, not only the whites of his eyes and the cloud-fluff of his hair, but all around him was a strange glow, as if he were illuminated from within. For a split second, Crowley almost thought he saw something that looked like . . . wings? But that was impossible. </p><p>“There, there, dear. You’ll be all right.” Ezra patted the girl’s shoulder, and she stopped shaking. “Be warm.” </p><p>“Thank you,” she whispered. “M-my friends dared me. I’ve never been a g-good swimmer. I never should have done it.” </p><p>“We all make mistakes.” </p><p>The girl huddled into the coat. “And him? Is he going to be ok? He s-s-saved me.” </p><p>“Yes, he’ll be fine. I’ll take good care of him.” </p><p>Crowley was kneeling, unable to move.  How had they been in the middle of the river, and then here?</p><p>“Crowley?” </p><p>Crowley watched as Ezra came towards him, stepping gracefully over the rocks. This was not the fussy, tentative man he had come to know over the past weeks. This man was strong, assertive and . . . not entirely  human. </p><p>“How did you . . ?” Crowley asked, his voice coming out like a croak. “How did you know where I was?” </p><p>Ezra looked suddenly pained. He shook his head. “I . . . I’m not sure how to explain. I was out on a walk. I saw you jump in.” A fim hand squeezed Crowley’s shoulder; it was searingly warm through the thin, wet fabric of Crowley’s shirt, and it seemed to ease his chill. “Are you all right? Quite a silly question, you’re not all right at all. Here, stand up my dear, and lean on me. We’ll get a taxicab or one of those uber thingies and get the young lady home, and then we will go wherever you like. Back to mine, perhaps?” </p><p>Crowley blinked again, his drunkenness reasserting itself as the adrenaline waned. They’d had to have been closer to the shore than he thought. Maybe he was just delirious from the events of the night. Ezra didn’t look at all shiny now; he looked like himself, and Crowley had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life. A swell of emotion threatened to overwhelm him, and he swallowed it down. </p><p>“All right,” he said, shivering again. “I’m tired.” </p><p>“I’m sure you are, my dear, after such a night.” </p><p>A taxi was already waiting for them once they made it up to the street. Ezra ushered the girl into the front seat and then helped Crowley into the back, following after. The ride was long, as the girl lived on the outskirts of London, and Crowley let his head rest on Ezra’s shoulder, finding himself lulled by the warm body at his side and the gentle rumble of the taxi. Ezra chatted with the girl, giving her advice about her friendship with the idiots who’d dared her to jump, and Crowley began to doze, not caring where they were going, as long as they were together.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: The national suicide prevention helpline in the US is 1-800-273-8255. In the UK, the free Samaritans helpline can be reached at 116 123. Please, call someone if you need help.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. All Change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A bit of a softer chapter this week - hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley was sleeping and had been for some time. He was safely tucked into the bed Aziraphale had recently miracled into existence after realising it might be strange for Crowley to discover he didn’t have one. It was part of a small, cosy one-bedroom flat above the bookshop filled with books and the knickknacks Aziraphale had been collecting over the last months along with the ones he had saved from previous visits to Earth. </p><p>Aziraphale tried not to watch him sleep, but it was difficult to leave him alone entirely, so he satisfied himself with quick peeks into the bedroom every hour or so, and every time he looked in, he found Crowley slumbering tangled in the blankets, his lanky arms and legs spread out across the too-narrow bed frame. </p><p>He was beautiful. Aziraphale ached as, in the faint light cast from the open doorway, he considered the long lashes, the aquiline nose, the gently opened lips. He bit his lower lip, trying to quell the rising warmth that filled his body when he looked at Crowley, but it was futile. In such a short time, Crowley had become dear to him. More than dear, if he were being honest. And down at the riverbank, in that moment when their eyes had locked, he had sensed an answering, reciprocal emotion in Crowley. As they had driven in the back of the taxi and Crowley had rested against him, Aziraphale had felt a deep satisfaction he’d never experienced before in all of his existence. </p><p>The day had been difficult. He had been so worried, wondering how Crowley’s visit to Tadfield had gone and then, when Crowley had failed to turn up at dinner, hoping he had made it back home safely in his automobile. Whatever Crowley had promised, Aziraphale knew he still drove too fast. </p><p>He hadn’t used his Angelic Sight until late that night. Suddenly in the ether he had felt Crowley’s distress, and without caring whether or not the use of his power would be sanctioned by the Binder, he looked and found Crowley in despair on the bridge. In an instant, Aziraphale had flown to his side, found him in the water with the young woman in his arms. It had been terrifying to see Crowley in such a dangerous situation, and Aziraphale had acted without thinking to hurry them both to safety, nearly giving away his true identity in the process. </p><p>Now, retreating to allow Crowley his privacy, Aziraphale felt the same tug under his ribs, as though he had been tethered to the man on the bed, and every step that separated them stretched the cord painfully. He searched the Binder of Protocols as he waited for Crowley to awaken, but he knew he wouldn’t find any useful information in its many chapters and indexes. The Binder didn’t touch on feelings at all.  </p><p>He made himself another cup of cocoa and sat down on the worn velvet sofa in his small living room, trying to read, but he kept repeating the same sentence over and over as his mind returned again and again to the situation at hand.</p><p>It was of course impossible. Not only was Crowley human, he had been entrusted to Aziraphale, and any exploration of a romantic or physical love between them, even were it not prohibited by Heaven, would be based on a lie. Aziraphale could never in good conscience take advantage of Crowley’s trust in that way, not to slake some forbidden – not even in the service of purer emotion. Especially not when Crowley was in such a vulnerable state. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure what the punishment even was for violation of the rules as laid out in the Binder. Failing at guarding meant demotion. Breaking the rules probably meant demotion or worse—never being allowed to return to Earth again. The thought of never seeing his books, never exploring new human cuisine or . . . ever seeing Crowley again, was almost too much to bear. </p><p>No, an exploration of romantic feelings was quite out of the question. He would have to keep his silence, no matter how painful it might be. </p><p>“But why would You put me here?” he asked aloud, addressing an Almighty that would never answer. “Why give me this connection to him? Allow me to . . .” He couldn’t say it out loud, even in the empty room. He set down his book and sighed loudly, the uneasy feelings roiling in his chest. </p><p>No, what he had to do was fulfill his duty and help Crowley, in spite of the limited guidance he’d been given from Above. He would have to trust his own instincts. </p><p>The dawn came gradually, filling the room with a cool light. When Aziraphale went to check on Crowley again some time later, he was awake and staring up at the ceiling. </p><p>“Good morning,” Aziraphale said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “How are you feeling?” </p><p>“Like I’ve been run over by a lorry.” Crowley gave him a small smile. “You?” </p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale gave a small shrug. “I’m quite all right.” </p><p>“Sorry I took over your bed,” Crowley said, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rode up, showing a sliver of pale skin. “Did you sleep on the couch?” </p><p>Aziraphale dragged his gaze away, his face growing warm. It was utterly inappropriate to be noticing Crowley in this way. “I find myself there reading most nights anyway. I’m glad you were able to rest. I hope you found it comfortable.” </p><p>“Very. A little small. Not sure about the tartan sheets.” The corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkled. Aziraphale let out a relieved laugh, grateful Crowley could still see fit to tease him. He looked softer than usual, rumpled from sleep, his hair pressed against his head where it had been flattened by the pillow.  </p><p>“Yes, well, I have standards.” </p><p>“Not very high ones.” </p><p>“I’ll have you know those sheets are Egyptian cotton.” </p><p>They looked at each other for a beat, but Crowley didn’t answer with a rejoinder. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Aziraphale’s stomach clenched with sudden dread. He’d been hoping to avoid retelling how he had come to be at the bridge, but he feared it was inevitable. He still didn’t know how he could explain his presence, other than with the continued lie – but the truth was equally impossible. </p><p>“We need to talk about last night,” Crowley said. </p><p>Aziraphale swallowed. “Yes. I imagine so.” </p><p>“I . . . I really don’t know how it all happened. How I managed to be there at the right time. I didn’t mean to go to the bridge. I didn’t know where I was walking. I was thinking about my father. About his death.” </p><p>“You told me he’d drowned?”  </p><p>Crowley nodded. “Yeah. I was feeling pretty bleak. And then suddenly, the girl—”</p><p>“Naomi,” Aziraphale supplied. He’d had quite a good chat with her on their way home, but he wasn’t surprised Crowley had missed most of it. </p><p>“Yeah, she was there. And I didn’t even think. I just jumped in after her. And then you were there, and it all . . . how could it have been a coincidence? I . . . can’t wrap my head around it.”</p><p>Aziraphale worried at the buttons of his housecoat. At one time, he may have said something like “the Lord works in mysterious ways,” but he knew Crowley would find the saying trite. He couldn’t pretend to understand God’s plan. </p><p>“I don’t have any answers for you, my dear.” </p><p>“Yeah. Well, that’s ok. I just . . . I feel like . . . and I know this sounds absurd, but maybe it was my second chance? To help her, when I wasn’t able to help my father.” His voice cracked as he continued to speak, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “He had a sailboat. Fucking loved that boat, but it was never really my thing. We were supposed to go on a trip to the Hebrides the summer before my first year at uni. The day before we were supposed to leave, we had a fight about some of the people I’d been hanging around with. He didn’t like them. I told him off and said I wasn’t going with him. He left without me. I imagine he thought he’d stay out a day or two, teach me a lesson, and then come back for me. That was his way.” He paused a moment, as though lost in thought, and another thick wave of grief pulsed through the air. “There was a storm. No one really knows what happened, but they found the boat and his body washed up on the beach at Barra a week later.” Crowley scrubbed one of his hands through his hair and blinked rapidly, clearly trying to chase away his tears. </p><p>Aziraphale crossed the room to kneel down before him, taking Crowley’s hands in his own. “I’m so sorry, my dear. What a terrible thing to have happened. It sounds like you were very close.” </p><p>“If I’d been there like I was supposed to, I could have saved him.” </p><p>The guilt rolling off him was caustic, and Aziraphale finally understood what had driven Crowley all of these years, trying to please his mother in spite of her cruelty, trying to make up for the fact that he hadn’t been there to help his father in his time of need, and coping with it all – badly – through casual sex and alcohol.</p><p>“You might have met the same fate as your father if you’d been on that boat.”   </p><p>“Maybe I’d have been better off.” </p><p>“My dear, please don’t say such a thing. I . . . know it has been difficult for you. But you’re a good person – a generous person. Not just anyone would have jumped off that bridge last night to save someone else. The world is better for you being in it.” And so is my existence, Aziraphale wanted to say, but it wasn’t the time, and perhaps would never be. </p><p>“Nice of you to say that. But really, what have I done but fuck shit up for myself and everyone around me? Hundreds of people will be out of work because of me. I . . . I’m forty years old, and I’m a complete fuckup.” </p><p>Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hands. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing, of somehow driving Crowley further into despair. “I don’t think so. I think . . . I think you just haven’t had anyone believe in you. I think . . . that is necessary, sometimes, before you can believe in yourself.” </p><p>“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” Crowley looked down at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. </p><p>“I am, I suppose. And for what it’s worth, I believe in you. I believe you can stand up to your mother and figure out a way to help the people of Tadfield. I think you could truly be extraordinary, if you let yourself.” Aziraphale could feel the effect of his words in the way the atmosphere changed between them, some of the despair lifting. Crowley gave him a little smile, and Aziraphale was suddenly very aware of a thumb stroking the inside of his palm.</p><p>“Fuck,” Crowley said. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.” </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>“Because it makes me want to kiss you again.” </p><p>Aziraphale froze, realising the suggestiveness of the position he’d assumed, a supplicant at Crowley’s feet, in his bedroom. His heart started to pound, and he could feel the heat flooding his body, begging to manifest – to become an effort. This was a different ache than he’d experienced before – an unfamiliar, almost painful need to be close. He didn’t know how to look away from Crowley’s piercing stare. </p><p>“My dear, I—” </p><p>There was nothing he could say that would be right – not the truth, certainly – but nor could he lie and pretend he wasn’t affected. Perhaps a middle ground would be appropriate? An admission of mutual attraction without acting on it – or was that still crossing the boundary? Aziraphale was terribly muddled. He couldn’t think clearly with the fog of lust in the room – whether his own or Crowley’s, it was impossible to determine. They felt one and the same. How had things gone pear-shaped so quickly?  </p><p>He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while inside his feelings rioted. He had never felt so at war with himself, caught between duty and his own personal need. To even have a personal need was scandalous – angels were to love all of God’s creatures equally, not favour one above all. </p><p>“You feel something for me, don’t you?” Crowley asked. </p><p>“Of course,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I feel so much, it’s hard to put into words.” Even as he spoke something within him shifted, a door opening.  </p><p>Crowley’s mobile phone rang on the dresser next to the bed. </p><p>“Hold that thought,” Crowley grumbled, releasing Aziraphale’s hands to pick up the phone. “What in the blazes does he want at seven in the morning? He never calls. Shite, I think I have to take this.” </p><p>Aziraphale exhaled, feeling bereft at the loss of contact and the way his confession had been interrupted. But as he listened to the conversation, his heart started pounding for another reason. </p><p>“Okay,” Crowley was saying. “What sort of anomaly?” His eyebrows drew together as he listened. “Right. No, there wouldn’t be any files. Well, looks like I better come to the office. Better yet, meet me at home, say in an hour? I’m . . . at a friend’s house.” </p><p>When Crowley hung up the phone, his emotions were all over the place – hope, anger, and disappointment mingling. He took Aziraphale’s hands again. “Newt, that’s my accountant, he found something in the finance records from the last several years. He thinks . . . it’s possible my mother might be stealing money from the company.” </p><p>Aziraphale did his best to keep his features neutral; he could never let Crowley know that he’d had a hand in helping Newt with his discovery. All it had taken was some research into the company books, a minor miracle and a bit of a gentle push in the right direction. Apparently, Newt was even more hopeless at computers than Aziraphale himself. </p><p>“And that could . . . it could give you leverage to stop the merger?” Aziraphale asked tentatively. </p><p>“Yeah, if we can prove it. Find those deleted files. It might take a miracle.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, his mind turning over the possibilities. “A miracle, you say?” He supposed another wouldn’t hurt. </p><p>“I’m not done with this conversation yet,” Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands. “I’ve got to go now, but can you come over to mine later, around eight o’clock? I’ll make you dinner. Please.”  </p><p>“I didn’t know you could cook,” Aziraphale said, somewhat breathlessly as Crowley stood and pulled him to his feet.  </p><p>“I can’t. You’re right. Let’s order in. Anything you like.” He lowered his head and kissed each one of Aziraphale’s knuckles, one by one, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop a delightful shiver from running down his spine. “You’re my good luck charm, Ezra Fell.” </p><p>The name washed over Aziraphale like the shock of cold water. Crowley still didn’t – and couldn’t – learn the truth. Nothing had changed. Still, he found himself saying “all right,” and “I’ll see you at eight,” and “good luck, my dear,” as Crowley gathered his things and left the flat. </p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t lie to himself any longer.</p><p>Everything had changed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Mission Complete</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley entered the office building at three with a flash drive in his pocket and Newt, Anathema and Shadwell at his heels. All of them were quiet, save Shadwell, who couldn’t stay silent for love or money and was giving a running commentary on the changes he hoped to see at the factory going forward, if things went well. Anathema and Newt exchanged a nervous glance as the elevator door shut, but Crowley found himself strangely calm. He wasn’t sure why, whether it was because he had nothing to lose – or everything. </p><p>“So, you’re really doing this,” Anathema said, her voice quiet. “Are you ok?” </p><p>“I’m fine,” Crowley said, noticing that Newt and Anathema’s hands were brushing against one another. “It’s a long time coming.” </p><p>Anathema grimaced in sympathy. Newt, who was wearing his signature black-rimmed glasses and looked like he’d been up for three days – which he had – gave Crowley a wary smile. The two of them made an attractive, if unlikely, pair, and Crowley made a mental note to have them over for dinner once all of this was behind them. Perhaps with Ezra there, too, as his date. </p><p>The thought was too distracting to ponder now – he’d have time later, when they had dinner in the evening, to figure out where they were headed. He had a feeling that Ezra had begun to change his mind about the ‘only friends’ thing, but he was skittish, and Crowley understood that the slightest misstep could backfire.</p><p>Back to the matter at hand. It had been easier than Crowley had anticipated to locate the paper trail from the remote server – a diversion of funds over a period of years – almost as though the information had been dropped right into their laps. Now, his mother’s desire to push the merger through quickly finally made sense. After a long morning of discussing next steps with the three of them, Crowley had decided to confront his mother privately first and then, if necessary, take her to court. She was, after all, his only family, whether or not she wanted to be.   </p><p>They reached the fourteenth floor, and the elevator door opened. The office was quiet for a Wednesday. Crowley ran his fingers over the metal drive in his pocket as he walked down the long beige hall, the uninspired office pictures hung at precise intervals. He was suddenly filled with the urge to tear them all down, rip up the beige carpet and start from scratch. </p><p>Agatha Crowley was dressed in a sharp grey suit and stood at the window with her hands clasped behind her back, looking down at London. When she heard the door open, she turned, and her sharp eyes flicked over his body. Crowley had worn the boots she didn’t like, and he had just a faint bit of gloss on his lips, but the rest of his outfit was conventional by anyone’s standards. Of course, she never missed anything. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Mother,” Crowley said. “You’re looking well.” </p><p>“What’s going on, Anthony?” she asked, her eyes moving from him to the three flanking him on the left and right. Shadwell was whistling quietly to himself, arms crossed, and Anathema stood directly at Crowley’s side, shoulders back and head high. Newt was a little less sure of himself, shuffling from one foot to the other, but Anathema glared at him and cleared her throat, and he stood at attention. </p><p>“We’ve come to talk to you about something.” </p><p>“The signing is tomorrow. I trust you’re ready?” </p><p>“Yeah, about that.” He resisted the urge to scrub his hands through his hair. She could scent weakness like a shark on the hunt. “Why don’t you come and sit down. I’ve got something to discuss with you.” </p><p>She walked slowly to sit behind her desk and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “Well?” she asked, as though he were wasting her time. </p><p>Crowley removed the flash drive and slid it over the table to her as he took a seat in the black leather chair opposite. Shadwell, Anathema and Newt gathered behind him. His mother’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, though she didn’t reach out to take it. She focused her gaze back on him. “What is this supposed to be?” </p><p>“Evidence of the debt you’ve accrued over the past ten years through gross mismanagement. Do you want to explain to me where the 30 million dollars you’ve borrowed has gone? Does Pacific even know about this debt? You’ve hidden this from me, and you’ve about run this place into the ground.” Crowley leaned forward. “So this is what we’re going to do. You’re going to sign your majority rights over to me and abdicate as director, effective immediately, and cancel the sale tomorrow with Pacific. They’ll be no merger, at least under the current terms. Oh, and you’re going to fire the company accountant who has been signing off on all of your ‘expenses.’ Newt will be stepping into that role.” </p><p>Newt let out a nervous little laugh.</p><p>“Ridiculous,” said his mother.  </p><p>“I dinnae ken much, but Mr Crowley would be rolling in his grave o’er what’s become of his life’s work, mark my words,” Shadwell grumbled under his breath. Crowley shot him a look.   </p><p>Shock wasn’t the word to describe the look on his mother’s face. “Are you threatening me?” </p><p>“Yes, I suppose I am. But I know you, Mother, and I think you’d prefer a peaceful transition of power – an early retirement – unless you want us to get us an injunction to stop the meeting tomorrow and expose your mismanagement to the press and all of your lovely, socialite friends.” </p><p>“And I suppose these people are behind you?” Agatha regarded the trio with contempt, but she had gone visibly pale. </p><p>“We are,” said Anathema firmly. </p><p>“Yeah,” Newt said. </p><p>Shadwell cleared his throat loudly. “Aye, we’re with the lad. Completely.” </p><p>Crowley’s chest tightened with emotion over the affirmation. He had people on his side – friends he could count on.  </p><p>“You would blackmail your own mother?” She turned her focus back on Crowley. </p><p>“You would divert money from your own company – our company – and lie to my face about it, so I guess . . . yeah. I guess so.” </p><p>“Crowley—we need this money. Things will go very badly indeed if the merger doesn’t go through.” </p><p>Her strategic use of his preferred name almost made him flinch, but he was careful not to show the emotion on his face. “No, I understand completely. I understand that you got greedy, but you can very easily sell your house in the Cayman Islands and the flat in New York to help pay back what you took. And you will do it in honour of dad’s memory. And that way, you’ll keep your reputation – and his legacy – intact.”  </p><p>Newt stepped forward and flourished the paperwork that would turn the company over to Crowley. His mother regarded it as though it were a poisonous snake. The room was quiet as the minutes ticked by; even Shadwell had stopped whistling. Crowley felt the sweat prickling at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Just sign, Mother.” </p><p>“You’re no son of mine,” she said, finally picking up her fountain pen. </p><p>“I don’t think I ever was.” Crowley kept the waver out of his voice as he watched her . He wasn’t going to show her how much he was affected by her coldness, not now and not ever again. “It didn’t have to be this way. You could have been honest with me.” </p><p>“And what would you have had me do? Live like a pauper? Your father wouldn’t have wanted that – there is a certain lifestyle to which I’m accustomed. The life we had together.” She sniffed and looked away, and for one second, her icy demeanor wavered – Crowley saw then that her pain and grief were real, the pain and grief they shared. Perhaps, if circumstances had been different, they might have found comfort in one another instead of in material things.  </p><p>“I miss him too, you know,” he said. </p><p>“Get out,” she said quietly, sliding back the papers to Newt. “Give me a moment to collect my things.” Crowley swallowed down twenty years of guilt. Twenty years of knowing he wasn’t good enough, knowing he wasn’t what she wanted, knowing she blamed him above all. </p><p>“Goodbye, Mother.” </p><p>Crowley left the building, leaving Anathema in charge. The rest of it could wait until the following day. His mind was fuzzy with numbers and legalese, and he couldn’t think any more about what would come next. His mother would likely refuse to sell her assets, leaving him to declare bankruptcy and restructure the loan to preserve people’s jobs – or perhaps she would surprise him.  </p><p>He kept waiting for the despair to set in as it had the night before, but as he drove back to his flat, stopping for a bottle of wine for dinner, he felt nothing but a growing sense of anticipation for the evening ahead. It had given him no joy to present his mother with an ultimatum, and he knew this rift between them would likely never be healed. He was going to have to learn to accept that fact, rather than try to change who he was to suit her preferences. It had never worked before, anyway. He couldn’t wait to share the events of the day with Ezra and get his take on what had happened; perhaps it might even offer Ezra an opportunity to be more honest about his past and whatever was holding him back from exploring a potential relationship with Crowley. </p><p>Even the word relationship sent a little thrill up Crowley’s spine; before, it had always been something to avoid at all costs. He’d never thought it would be something he could be interested in – the idea of baring oneself to another, accepting another person and allowing them to accept you, warts and all, had always seemed uninteresting at best, and frightening at worst. But now, having met Ezra, those worries had fallen away. </p><p>Crowley did, however, wonder what Ezra would think of his flat; it was the polar opposite of the homey, cluttered little flat above the bookshop. He considered the long, black leather sofa, the state-of-the-art sound system and television, the expensive statuary – how would it all look from Ezra’s perspective? In a fit of anxiety, Crowley found a couple of throw pillows in his linen closet and a soft knit blanket – gifts from his paternal grandmother, before she’d died – and arranged them on the sofa, then, unable to bear the incongruity, stowed them away again. He spent the rest of the afternoon with his plants in the green room, misting and pruning and trying to calm the nerves that threatened to lay him out every time he thought of Ezra’s words that morning. <i>I feel so much, it’s hard to put into words.</i></p><p>Eventually, eight o’clock arrived and, showered and changed into a casual pair of black pants and button down, Crowley answered the door to his flat when the bell rang. Ezra stood outside, wearing a long overcoat and holding a folded tartan umbrella. His hair was slightly damp, and his shoes squeaked against the marble hall floor. </p><p>“It’s raining,” Ezra said, his smiling face slightly flushed. “I hope I’m not late.” </p><p>“Not at all. Come in, come in.” Crowley gestured wide and opened the door, and as Ezra brushed by him, he caught the scent of books and Earl Grey tea, mingled with the fragrance of London rain. </p><p>Crowley helped him out of his coat and stowed his wet things, and then invited Ezra into the living room, where Crowley had set up an arrangement of food on the large glass coffee table: sushi and sashimi from Ezra’s favourite place, samosas and red curry with coconut rice, spring rolls, papaya salad and other tidbits from a Thai restaurant they’d both enjoyed several days before, and a selection of desserts from several of London’s best patisseries. </p><p>“Oh my dear, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Ezra said, his eyes wide as he took in the spread. </p><p>“It wasn’t any trouble, it was delivery. I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for. Here, come on and sit down and have whatever you’d like. Some wine?” </p><p>“Yes, please.” Ezra made delighted sounds as he loaded his plate with bits of this and that, sampling bites as he went. Some of the moans were almost indecent, especially when he got to the salmon sashimi, and Crowley watched, rapt and hungry for something other than food. He hadn’t ever seen someone enjoy themselves so much while eating – and he couldn’t help imagining how Ezra would look in his bed, laid out like a feast for Crowley to enjoy.  </p><p>He tried to push those thoughts out of his mind and sipped his glass of wine carefully. He didn’t want Ezra to think he’d asked him here with the intent to seduce him, even if it would be extremely nice—</p><p>“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Ezra asked, voice laced with concern. </p><p>“Yeah, sure. I . . . sometimes forget to eat.” Dutifully, Crowley leaned forward to take a plate and forked some of the curry onto a small pile of rice. </p><p>“You need someone around to remind you.” </p><p>“I wouldn’t mind it.” Crowley found Ezra’s fussing over him endearing. No one else would have dared. </p><p>“This salad is simply scrummy,” Ezra murmured around a bite. “You must try some.” </p><p>Crowley obliged him, and found he was a little hungrier than he’d thought. </p><p>Once Ezra had finished all but dessert, he set his plate down and gave Crowley one of his tentative smiles. “How did it go with your mother?” </p><p>Crowley had texted Ezra on his way to the office that afternoon. He sighed and settled back against the couch with his wine. “Well, she signed over her shares and resigned. The company’s mine.” </p><p>Ezra watched him carefully. “And that’s what you want?”  </p><p>“Well, we’ve got a bit of a financial crisis to solve – and I want to make sure that all of the people in Tadfield are taken care of. Once that’s all settled, maybe . . . maybe then, I’ll consider what to do next.” He trailed off. He could no longer imagine a future without the family business central to his life, but maybe in a couple of years, he would be able to. “At this point I honestly don’t know if my mother will ever talk to me again.” </p><p>“I’m so sorry, my dear.”  </p><p>Crowley shook his head and turned his attention back to Ezra, who, as they’d been speaking, had shifted closer on the sofa. “Thanks. Listen, I don’t want to talk about her right now. I’d rather continue the conversation we were having this morning.” </p><p>The hand Ezra was using to hold his wine glass was trembling. He set it down and pressed his palms together. “Yes. I imagined you would.” </p><p>“I’m not here to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. I think it’s obvious that I have feelings for you. An attraction to you. And I know there’s something you don’t want to tell me for whatever reason.”  </p><p>“Is it that obvious?” Ezra sounded rueful.</p><p>“A bit. Which is fine, really. But I just wanted to tell you that you can, if you’d like to. There’s nothing you could say to me that would make me want you any less.” </p><p>Ezra sighed. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I . . . wish things were different. I wish that I could tell you why.” </p><p>“You keep talking about being free. Is someone blackmailing you? Threatening you?” </p><p>“No, no, my dear. What I said this morning is true. I have . . . feelings—and desire for you, but it’s impossible for me to go beyond that acknowledgement. I can’t. I —” Ezra’s hand found his and squeezed. The contact, as benign as it was, made Crowley’s spine tingle. He waited for Ezra to go on, but Ezra seemed as distracted by the touch as Crowley. His breath hitched slightly, and he licked his lips. His face was close to Crowley’s now, so close that Crowley could see that his irises were a devastating combination of blue and green, that his nose was slightly crooked, and his forehead was wrinkled with worry lines. </p><p>“Oh, blast it,” Ezra said. “Blast it all.” </p><p>Crowley sat completely still, afraid to move – and then Ezra’s lips were against his, and Ezra’s hands were clutching him tightly, pulling him close. Crowley let out a shaky breath and then responded, kissing back with all of the pent-up desire in his body. He uncoiled like a spring, welcoming Ezra’s fervor even as it surprised him. It was messy and frantic, unpracticed but brilliant; their mouths and tongues slid together with kisses that seared Crowley from the inside. He clung on, equally desperate and needy, hands in Ezra’s hair and on his face and around his sturdy frame, urging him closer. </p><p>It went on for what seemed like an eternity, until Crowley felt Ezra’s kisses start to soften and – oh God – tasted the warm salt of tears.  </p><p>“Ezra? Hey, what’s wrong?” Crowley asked, holding him by the shoulders. Ezra looked at him with watery, red eyes, and breathed out a long exhale.   </p><p>“I wanted to do that, before I go. I’m not sure how much time I have left.” </p><p>“Time left? What are you on about? Wait –“ A sudden, desperate fear made Crowley’s blood run cold. “You’re not ill, are you?” </p><p>A shadow passed over Ezra’s face. “No. I’m not ill. But I will be leaving soon.” </p><p>“Where?” </p><p>“I’m sorry but I can’t tell you that. I . . . just want you to that you’re the first person I have ever had feelings for.” Ezra pressed the back of his hand to Crowley’s face, stroking his cheek gently. “I didn’t know they’d be so wonderous and intense. I’d love nothing more than to explore them with you, but I’m afraid my departure was determined before we ever met. I’d stay with you if I could.”    </p><p>Crowley’s mind reeled. He thought back over the last several weeks, from their first meeting to last night on the bridge, trying to make sense of it all. How had he come to crash in front of Ezra’s bookshop? And how had Ezra found him and Naomi in the water? How had he managed to pull them out without getting a drop of water on his suit? And all of the little anomalies and anachronisms about Ezra – had Crowley willfully misunderstood them? </p><p>He had been convinced on the shore of the Thames that Ezra wasn’t human. And even now, there was something otherworldly about his face, something just a little strange and unknowable. </p><p>“When are you leaving?” </p><p>“I’m not sure. I’ve . . . I think I’ve done what I came here to do. It will likely be soon.” His voice caught on the last word. They sat, looking at one another. Crowley wanted to freeze time. He didn’t want this to be over before it had begun – not when such a change had already come over his life, all because of the man before him. He wanted to grab ahold of Ezra and never let go.   </p><p>“Ezra, who are you?” </p><p>“I’m yours, my dear. Forever.” Ezra pressed another kiss against Crowley’s lips, but this time it felt like goodbye.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Guardian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I don't know how this happened, but there is Current Events stuff mentioned in this chapter (coronavirus, BLM, protests), so I felt that needed to come with a content warning. I hope you're continuing to enjoy the ride - only a few chapters left!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale knew his time with Crowley was limited. Had known from the moment Crowley had successfully thwarted the merger. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. </p>
<p>The morning after his evening at Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale was disturbed from his reading by Uriel, who entered the bookshop through the front door as though they were just an ordinary customer. Immediately, the ozone shifted, and the ambrosial smells of Heaven – strangely not as lovely as the cocoa Aziraphale was drinking – filled the air. </p>
<p>“Congratulations, Aziraphale,” said Uriel, who was wearing a crisp white suit with a satin cravat. “You’ve successfully completed your first guardianship and are being recalled to Heaven for reassignment.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale stared, trying to make sense of the words. “Reassignment?” </p>
<p>“Yes. Gabriel liked your work down here. You’ve been a bit sloppy, if you ask me, what with the falling in love with a human – not to mention sullying your ethereal body with gross matter.” They wrinkled their nose in distaste. “But you managed to head it off at the pass, so that little blip is being overlooked. So long as it never happens again.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale sucked in a breath. Every interaction with Crowley felt sacred to him – to think they had been subject to the voyeurism of Heaven, especially during their more intimate moments – was truly unsettling. “You’ve been watching me?”</p>
<p>“Of course. How else did you think we would be able to do a performance review?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale was at a loss for words. “What about my shop?” </p>
<p>“You’ll have to miracle it away. Can’t leave it like this or else humans will get suspicious. Make sure you take the Binder of Protocols – we have limited copies. You have ten minutes.” </p>
<p>Uriel turned to go, leaving Aziraphale alone and feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. Ten minutes left – ten minutes in which to get some sort of communication to Crowley. He fumbled with his mobile and pressed send on his one contact, but it went straight to voicemail. Yes, Crowley had mentioned he would be in meetings all day working out the details of the transfer.</p>
<p>“Hi, this is Crowley, you know what to do.” </p>
<p>“My dear, it’s me. I . . . I’m being called away now. I just wanted to say . . . I love you. Goodbye, Crowley.” He rung off and put the mobile down on his desk, which was cluttered with papers and beloved books. He looked around his shop, feeling such a pang of loss he could barely breathe, which, of course, wasn’t necessary, though he had become accustomed to it. </p>
<p>He had never felt so utterly bereft to return to Heaven, not after any previous visit to Earth, as much as he had enjoyed those trips. Hot tears pricked behind his eyelids, and he didn’t bother brushing them away. He hastily composed a final note to Crowley, miracling it to only be delivered under particular circumstances, and then spent his precious few last minutes storing his most loved volumes and personal items in the ether, among them a jumper Crowley had left draped over a chair in his back room. It still smelled faintly of his cologne. </p>
<p>The clock chimed, and Aziraphale felt the tug from deep inside his corporation, calling him back home.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>“I’d like to speak to Gabriel,” Aziraphale told the front desk reception – he had returned again and again since he had been recalled, but so far Gabriel had been too busy to speak with him. The angel sitting behind the desk, Anxo, her name badge read, gave him a doleful look.<p>“He’s in a meeting.” </p>
<p>“Still?” </p>
<p>“Let me take down your name.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale sighed with frustration; he’d been having this same conversation with the same angel for days – at the very least, she could remember his name! “Aziraphale,” he said, mustering the last of his patience. “Please tell him it’s very important. Urgent.” </p>
<p>“And how do you spell that?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale gripped the side of the desk with both hands and suffered the indignity of spelling it once again. “I need to get back to Earth as soon as possible. I’m supposed to be reassigned another guardianship. Please, I beg of you – I need to go back. There’s someone I – I need to see.” He sighed again and scrubbed a hand over his face. This angel didn’t seem inclined to help  him, and he couldn’t exactly explain the unusual circumstances of his departure to her. </p>
<p>Later, he found himself back in the Seraphim lounge, listless and uninterested in the gossip and games of the other angels. Instead, he stared morosely at his chessboard and wished he had brought back his Oscar Wilde collection, or at least <i>The Picture of Dorian Grey</i>. He missed the hustle of Earth, the food, his bookshop and – and of course Crowley. </p>
<p>It was painful to think of him. How must he have reacted when he heard Aziraphale’s brief message on his mobile? Had he rushed to the bookshop to find everything gone, the sign removed, the windows boarded? A hollow ache filled Aziraphale’s chest, as though he were inwardly bleeding, and these feelings only worsened every time he passed someone with flaming red hair or saw two angels talking closely together and laughing. </p>
<p>He had no conception of how much time had passed on Earth since his departure. Time was a nebulous thing in Heaven, as it must be for ethereal, immortal beings. He hated to think that months – maybe even years – might pass in the blink of an eye. He could return again to Earth for his next assignment, and Crowley could be gone. He didn’t like to think on that, but it was hard not to, especially as more time passed and he still had not been given his new guardianship.   </p>
<p>When he returned to Gabriel’s office the next time, he expected to be turned away again, but Anxo gave him a little smile. “He’s actually expecting you. You can go right in.” </p>
<p>“Is this some sort of jest?” Aziraphale frowned. </p>
<p>“No. I . . . felt kinda bad for you last time and I rearranged his schedule. He was a little pissy that his pedicure got cancelled but what can you do.” She winked at him.</p>
<p>“Ah. Well. Thank you so much.” </p>
<p>“No problem. Let’s keep it between us, though, got it?” </p>
<p>“Got it.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale was shown into Gabriel’s office, only to find him sitting behind his desk and doodling something on white paper that looked to be a large phallus. Before Aziraphale was able to confirm, he balled up the sheet and tossed it towards the small grated trash can on the side of the room, missing it completely. </p>
<p>“Aziraphale, my man, great to see you! Glad I had some time to squeeze you in this morning – crazy busy time around here, which I’m sure you understand. So. You did good on your first run, bud! Proud of you. We’re going to send you back down – to America, this time! It’s your lucky day! There’s a whole bunch of poor saps that need help. The whole country is basically falling apart at the seams – lots of work for you to do!” </p>
<p>Aziraphale bit his lower lip. If people needed his help, he would be remiss to refuse the assignment. He had never had much luck in America, however; the last time he had been, during the gold rush, had been a trying time indeed. He’d nearly got shot in the back twice – even now, he shuddered to think of the paperwork. </p>
<p>“Yes, ah, about that. I was hoping I might be sent back to England.” </p>
<p>“England?” Gabriel grimaced at him. “Look. We know all about the human – Crowley – and you. Don’t get it myself, but we’re willing to give you another chance since we’re frankly running low on guardians at the moment. Too many humans on Earth having crises and whatnot. So we need you. Big time. But you won’t be allowed to contact the human again, Aziraphale. I’m afraid that’s just out of the question. If you do, we’ll have to revoke your Earth privileges permanently and wipe his memories, and you know we hate doing that. Gets messy.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale felt as though he had been shot straight through the heart. He tried not to let his emotions show on his face, but it was difficult when he felt like his whole world was crumbling down around him. It wasn’t only the loss of Crowley, the repercussions of further contact. He saw for the first time that his reassignment had never been based on merit – they simply needed more angels than were available to do the work. It was a mere personnel issue. An unfamiliar rebellious feeling rose up within him, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to give Gabriel a piece of his mind. He wanted to say no. </p>
<p>“There’s a woman who is dying of some sort of virus in a place called New York. I want you to go down and make sure she has a good end. Give her anything she asks for. She’s got a great record.” </p>
<p>He swallowed his objection. How could he deny a kind, dying woman her last requests? “All right.” </p>
<p>“Fantastic. Let me get her dossier.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Only five months had passed since Aziraphale had been to Earth, but everything was different. There was a virus sweeping the entire globe, killing thousands of people. The doctors did their best, but hospitals were overrun. Aziraphale hadn’t seen anything like it for a hundred years.<p>The woman he was assigned to was named Roberta. She was dying in a hospital in Queens, New York, and she was all alone. In her last moments, all she wanted was to talk to her son, Charles, but the doctors wouldn’t allow visitors. Aziraphale, himself disguised as a nurse, snuck Charles in under cover of night, using a miracle to ensure he wouldn’t be infected himself. Roberta was not alone when she finally passed in the early morning hours; she was holding her son’s hand. </p>
<p>His next assignment came by Angel Post. A young single mother trapped in a one-bedroom apartment was at her wit’s end with her three small children and considering self-harm. She had recently lost her job and was having a hard time putting food on the table. Aziraphale made sure the little family had enough food and basic necessities to get by, then got her job back and helped her find safe childcare. </p>
<p>On and on it went – for months, always a new person in desperate need. Aziraphale threw himself into his work; he hardly had time to think about Crowley, but when he did, it was like a shock to his system. The place under his ribs ached, and he imagined the cord between them stretched so thin, it was near to breaking. He knew very little of how Crowley was faring other than that the Tadfield factory was temporarily closed due to the pandemic; but when he reached out with his senses, he could feel that Crowley was alive. It would have to be good enough, for now. </p>
<p>He had retrieved his books and belongings when he returned to Earth, and they gave him small comfort; but none so much as Crowley’s soft, black jumper – his prize. It no longer smelled of Crowley, but if Aziraphale closed his eyes and pressed it to his face, he could remember. </p>
<p>There were other assignments, which were dispatched to him directly by Uriel, sometimes with a commendation for previous work. Aziraphale found himself at rallies against police brutality, ensuring the virus didn’t spread amongst the protesters, that police were held at bay from using force to disperse them. He wasn’t always successful; he couldn’t be everywhere at once. But he tried, and all around him humans were trying, too.</p>
<p>It was the longest he had ever been on Earth at one time, and he grew even fonder of humanity, foibles and all. Yes, there were bad people, and those people would one day get their due, but more than that, he was astonished by the dedication and hard work and selflessness of those working for a better world. He marveled at the doctors who staffed emergency rooms for eighteen-hour shifts, the protesters using their bodies and voices to stand up against bigotry and hate. He found himself moved on more than one occasion, and he also found himself frustrated at those who stood in the way of progress. He cared about  those he was tasked to protect, but only in a dispassionate way; never did his emotion grow into a deeper love, as it had with Crowley. He walked among the humans, but he was not of them. He was alone. </p>
<p>Months turned into a year, then almost two. Eventually, things improved. A new American president was elected, and the British Prime Minister stepped down. Scientists developed a vaccine to stop the illness from spreading to healthy people. Sweeping police reform legislation began to change the landscape of cities, and activists celebrated these victories and pushed for more. Aziraphale completed his current assignment and awaited another, but after several days went by without a word, he wondered if somehow they had forgotten about him now that the major crises were over. </p>
<p>He was living in a flat in Los Angeles and had been for the last two months, spending his days at a food pantry and his nights wondering what would happen next. No one had come to order him back to Heaven. People were back outside, going to the beach, eating in restaurants without face coverings, sending their children to school. All around, there was an air of cautious optimism, and sometimes giddy relief – Aziraphale had played his role, however small, but he was proud of what he had accomplished. </p>
<p>He didn’t mind Los Angeles – he loved the tacos and the beach — but he missed the rain and the cobbled streets of London almost as much as he missed his books. Almost as much as he missed Crowley. </p>
<p>While he was not permitted to contact Crowley, Aziraphale had followed the news coming out of the <i>Tadfield Reporter Online</i> closely. He knew Crowley was well: he had avoided contracting the virus and so had most of his factory workers – in fact, the village had been almost entirely spared. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Crowley in a grainy grey photograph from an article discussing the rocky last few months. The company was finding its footing again, slowly but surely. Aziraphale printed out the photograph and kept it with him; surely that one small indulgence would be allowed. </p>
<p>Two more weeks went by, and still no word from Heaven. Aziraphale was sitting on the porch of his flat, watching the sun set and drinking a bottle of white wine. A record player he’d found in an old salvage shop played the scratchy croon of Billie Holiday, and for the first time in months, Aziraphale let himself feel. </p>
<p>Salty tears splashed into his wine. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and inhaled shakily. He missed Crowley terribly, but it was possible, even probable, that Crowley didn’t feel the same. After all, they had only really known each other a few short weeks. Humans were resilient; he might even have met someone new. And even if he hadn’t and he still pined in the same way as Aziraphale, there was no way Aziraphale could go to him. Memory wipes were notoriously unpredictable – Crowley’s mind could be permanently damaged. </p>
<p>“Oh, blast,” he said into the warm summer breeze. “I miss him. Do you hear that, Lord?” He raised his gaze up to brilliant crimson sky. “I would give it all up to have one more day with him. Just one day.” </p>
<p>Nothing. Aziraphale didn’t know what he had expected. The Almighty didn’t listen anymore – or at least she hadn’t responded in the last two-thousand years. </p>
<p>He finished his wine and took himself to bed, a habit he’d become accustomed to over the past few months. He loved sleeping, because when he did, he dreamed of Crowley.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. An Unexpected Guest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This one is perfect,” Crowley said, and the face of his estate agent, Nasha – a kindly, middle-aged woman with a soft Trinidadian lilt – brightened with relief. They had toured nearly every cottage in the South Downs, but this one felt like it could become home. Crowley appreciated how the previous owners had gone through the trouble to retain its rustic character; all it needed was some updated fixtures and appliances. </p>
<p>The bathrooms were clean, if a bit outdated, the master bedroom was low-ceilinged and cosy, but large enough for a king-sized bed, and there was a small greenhouse in the back garden just perfect for his plants. There was also a small library which would be perfect to convert into an office – or maintain as it was, if he were so inclined. “I’d like to put in an offer.” </p>
<p>“Wonderful. We’ll do it right away. I know the owners are keen on selling and it’s right in your comfortable range, so we shouldn’t have a problem.”  </p>
<p>They walked from the sitting room to the kitchen with Nasha rattling off next steps, but Crowley was only half listening. He was struck suddenly by the flood of light falling over the stone floor, illuminating the small breakfast table, just big enough for two. His heart squeezed in his chest as he imagined Ezra sitting there and enjoying a cup of tea as he read the daily paper. Crowley would be at the stove, cooking a fry-up with his new culinary skills – courtesy of more than a year of near-quarantine. Ezra would be humming absently to himself and exclaiming whenever he read an interesting piece of news. The kitchen would smell of bacon and fresh bread, or whatever else his angel had a hankering for. </p>
<p>“Mr Crowley?” </p>
<p>Nasha’s voice filtered back in, and Crowley shook his head and turned back to her. “Sorry, what was that?” </p>
<p>“I said, are you ready to head back to the office, or would you like to do another look round?” </p>
<p>“I’m going to check out the back garden again. Meet you at the car in a few?” </p>
<p>“Absolutely.” She flashed him a smile and patted his shoulder, then they both headed out the back door into the sunlight. </p>
<p>It was a beautiful late spring day. There was an apple tree in one corner of the garden, blooming pink and white flowers and filling the air with perfume. Underneath the tree was an ancient moss-covered stone bench. Nasha veered toward her car, left in the driveway, and Crowley strolled over to sit. </p>
<p>From the outside, the cottage was even more quaint, the back door framed with ivy and the thatched roof overhang partially obscuring the two second-story windows like heavy-lidded eyes. Five years ago, he would have scoffed if anyone had told him that he would be buying a two-bedroom retirement cottage on the Downs and leaving London behind. Hell, even two years ago he would have done the same. But so much had happened in the last two years, he hardly recognized the person he had been then, now. </p>
<p>Neatly folded inside his back pocket was a letter he had received eight months before. He reached for it, as he often did, and unfolded it, smoothing the cream-coloured paper on his thigh. </p>
<p>
  <i>My dear Crowley, </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I am writing this in haste, so please forgive my brevity. If you’re receiving this letter, it is because a year has passed since my departure, and I haven’t been able to return to you. Believe me, darling, that I have tried. I am not permitted to tell you who exactly I am, but my real name is Aziraphale. I wanted you to know that. I also want you to know that the days I spent with you  were the most important in all of my existence. I hope that whatever happens, you are happy. You deserve to be happy, my dear. I hope you find someone to love, someone to share your life with. Please, promise me that you will be true to yourself, no matter what.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>All my love,<br/>AZ Fell</i>
</p>
<p>Crowley’s breath caught in his throat as he read the last sentence. It never failed to choke him up – how a man who had been practically a stranger had seen inside of his soul and known who he was, and what he had the potential to accomplish. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t been a man – or at least not only a man. On the day Crowley had received his distraught voicemail, he had rushed to the bookshop, only to find the entire contents of the shop gone and the windows boarded up. There was no sign hanging in the front, no trace of human occupation. It looked as though it had been abandoned for years. He could still remember how his stomach had bottomed out at the discovery, how he had stood like an idiot at the door, knocking as though someone would answer while nearby pedestrians gave him increasingly curious, and then alarmed, looks. </p>
<p>Numb, he had gone home and, after increasingly frantic google searches for AZ Fell’s and Ezra, found no internet presence at all. There was no man named Ezra Fell in London. He was completely gone – vanished without a trace.</p>
<p>That had been a difficult day. He couldn’t account for the devastating loss he felt – how painful it was to think of Ezra in those early days. If not for the immediate needs of the company, he might have given into despair. But he was busy – first with the bankruptcy and refinancing, the selling of assets, the long nights hunched over laptops, staring at spreadsheets with Newt and Anathema, who he had promoted to executive positions, until he felt he might go blind. And then the virus came and brought with it more financial woes, the mental toll and fear of it all. Months of uncertainty passed. They set up the Tadfield factory as a distribution center for food and basic needs for the community, and Crowley spent day after day sorting and packing supplies for the most vulnerable, delivering groceries to housebound elderly residents. It was tiring and sometimes distressing, but for the first time in many years, Crowley finally felt useful. <br/>For several weeks it looked like they were going under after all, but then a wire had come through from his mother along with a letter from her solicitor. She had sold her properties and was moving to France and didn’t want to be contacted again. </p>
<p>That had been the hardest day of all. It was also the day he received Ezra’s letter. </p>
<p>Crowley had wondered where Ezra was, of course – had thought himself insane as he wondered if Ezra had been real or a figment of Crowley’s imagination. But then the letter came, and with it the flood of feelings he’d managed so far to control. It hurt, the loss of a hope that Crowley hadn’t even known he harbored – the confirmation that Ezra was never coming back. He had been called back, or God forbid, forced back by those who had treated him badly. That was the worst part, knowing that Ezra hadn’t wanted to leave and that he might be lonely and unhappy, wherever he was. </p>
<p>Still, the letter had given him strength, which is what Ezra—or Aziraphale, rather—obviously intended to do. Crowley had gone on, and somehow come out on the other side. Slowly the business was starting to recover. In another year or two, Crowley would be in a good position to leave on his own terms. He would maintain all of his staff and ensure that the community recovered as well. He would do it for the memory of his father, and then he would be ready to live his own life. This cottage was the first step.  </p>
<p>He stared down at the letter and then folded it again, sliding it back into his pocket. It was the gloaming; the cottage was bathed golden, late afternoon sunlight, and songbirds twittered overhead. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Aziraphale sitting at his side.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>One month later, his London flat packed and sold, Crowley moved the few possessions he wished to keep down to the cottage. Anathema had been his ruthless accomplice in determining what to give away or sell – she was watching some sort of organizing show and insisted Crowley only took along things that ‘sparked joy’ – and so it didn’t take more than two trips in the Bentley to complete the transition. His plants were the only things he bothered to have professionally shipped. They filled the greenhouse nicely, with plenty of room for more additions.<p>Living in a small village near the sea was almost exactly like it sounded. Crowley’s days consisted of walks on the shore, nipping into town for ingredients or a box of nails, and working in the back garden until dusk. He decided to keep the library as is, with slight alterations for a home office, and had begun amassing a collection of horticultural and DIY renovation books. It was a far cry from his old, fast-paced life. </p>
<p>He loved it more than he expected to. He loved the salty, clean air in the morning, and he loved sitting outside in the evening, listening to the crickets in the meadow beyond. He had never worked so much with his hands, but he found it fortifying, even when he wound up with a middle-aged backache at the end of the day. </p>
<p>The only people he heard from regularly were Anathema and Newt, Shadwell, and his new therapist, Agnes, who he’d been seeing virtually since the beginning of lockdown. He’d been faced with a choice then of drinking himself into oblivion or tackling his problems. and while he didn’t always do the latter very well, he was doing a better job of not doing the former. All of the club crowd had fallen away, and Crowley didn’t miss any of them, save for maybe Beeze. He thought maybe one day, he would look them up. </p>
<p>On a Tuesday afternoon in late June, Crowley’s mobile rang in his back pocket. He dusted off his hands and sat back on his haunches, scrunching his nose as he fished it out. </p>
<p>“Hey,” he said at the familiar number. “What’s going on?” </p>
<p>Anathema made a sound between a shriek and a laugh. “Crowley, where are you? Are you sitting down?” </p>
<p>“I’m outside in the garden, and I’m covered in pollen. Please tell me this is good news.” In the two months since Anathema had taken on daily operations, she had managed to negotiate three new major contracts and avert the cancellation of several more. But it was hard to stop waiting for the axe to fall when you’d spent your whole life with your neck stretched under it. </p>
<p>“It’s good. Oh, it’s very good.” She paused, dramatically. “Guess who just stopped by?” </p>
<p>“The Queen. Paul Hollywood. Wait, no, I’ve got it — Jodie Whittaker.” Anathema was a <i>Doctor Who</i> fan. </p>
<p>“No, just shut up and listen! <i>He</i> was here. Ezra! He was looking for you. I told him you weren’t in London anymore, that you’d moved and were renovating a cottage on the South Downs. I . . . gave him your address. I hope that’s all right. He looked like he was about to keel over dead when I said you were gone. Bad choice of words on my part.” </p>
<p>Crowley was frozen in shock as the impact of the words hit him. “When did this happen?” </p>
<p>“A couple hours ago. Sorry I didn’t call right away; I was in a meeting . . . and I didn’t want to give you too much time to overthink it.” </p>
<p>“He’s coming here?” </p>
<p>“I think so. I told him he should call you, but he said he needed to speak to you in person. Why didn’t you tell me he was so cute? He’s adorable!” </p>
<p>“Did he say anything else?” Crowley’s voice sounded strangled, even to his own ears. </p>
<p>“No, he left really quickly once I’d told him where you were.” </p>
<p>“Ngk. I . . . I – Anathema! I can’t believe you didn’t call me!”  </p>
<p>“I’m calling you now. I hope it goes well. Tell me everything!” </p>
<p>They ended the call and Crowley stared blankly at the flowers he’d been planting for a few long seconds, then sprang into action. His heart was racing, and he felt light-headed as he kicked off his wellies, washed his hands and tried to neaten the messy bun of his hair in the hallway mirror. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and the shirt he was wearing was old and too tight, showing off his midriff in a way that might be sexy if not for the fact that it was also an advertisement for Marmite, the faded red and yellow label reading “Squeeze Me.” His face was unshaven, and he had a sunburn on his cheeks and nose which had begun to peel. </p>
<p>None of it really mattered, though. Not when Ezra was coming here. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” he whispered, “me.” </p>
<p>He went outside and sat down on the steps with sweaty palms and trembling hands. Fifteen minutes later, Ezra – Aziraphale – appeared from the thicket of rose bushes and overgrown hedges that obscured the cottage from the rest of the world. </p>
<p>Aziraphale froze mid-stride as they registered one another. He looked good. He looked extremely good; he was wearing a light summer suit, not quite as old-fashioned as some Crowley had seen him in, and he had a yellow rose in his buttonhole. He carried a small leather suitcase and held something else that looked like a box of chocolates. But it was his eyes that arrested Crowley – his blue eyes which latched onto his with laser focus. He looked different, somehow, but still the same. </p>
<p>“Crowley,” he whispered. “It’s really you.” </p>
<p>“It’s me, yeah. And you – you’re really here?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale set down his suitcase on the stone walk and the box of candy on top of that. “Yes. I’m finding it a bit hard to believe myself. But here I am, my dear. I hope . . . I hope I’m not intruding on anything.” He wrung his hands, a sign of distress Crowley recalled well. “The young lady, Anathema, said you wouldn’t mind. I thought of calling first, but I couldn’t think of what to say. I wanted to see you . . .” He trailed off, sounding lost, his eyes darting from Crowley to the cottage to the path beneath his feet. “I’ve come a long way.” </p>
<p>Crowley stood up. He cleared the distance between them in three long strides. Close up, Aziraphale smelled faintly of Earl Grey and book leather, and Crowley was transported back to the shop, back almost two years, as though no time had passed at all. They embraced instantly, and Crowley buried his face in the soft curl of hair behind Aziraphale’s ear and inhaled deeply, his whole body shaking with relief. Aziraphale’s arms were tight around him, and he was whispering something that sounded like ‘my dear boy.’ </p>
<p>“Where have you been?” Crowley finally asked, once he was sure his voice was steady. They parted enough to look at one another, but not enough to break contact. </p>
<p>“In America, actually. I . . . I was helping people who needed it. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you earlier. I wasn’t permitted.” </p>
<p>“I see.” Crowley wasn’t sure what the rules were; he didn’t want to ask too many questions and ruin the moment, though his mind was so filled with them he feared they might escape regardless. “And you’re back now? For how long?” </p>
<p>“Permanently. I . . . I suppose you could say I asked for a transfer and was granted my request. I’m no longer beholden to . . . that is to say . . . my choices are now my own.” </p>
<p>“Okay.” Crowley looked at him, cocking his head to try and figure out what seemed different, aside from this newfound independence. Aziraphale was smiling at him, a tentative, cautious expression. Crowley couldn’t put his finger on it until he finally did – it was in his smell. Under the familiar bergamot was a subtle, unmistakable maleness – the smell of Aziraphale himself. It wasn’t unpleasant. It made Crowley want to lean closer, which he refrained from doing, not wanting to make Aziraphale uncomfortable. “I got your letter.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale bit his bottom lip. “I know it must have seemed very strange. I wanted you to feel some . . . closure, for lack of a better term.”  His cheeks flushed slightly. “I suppose me being here now negates that a bit.” </p>
<p>Crowley shrugged. “Nah. I’m glad you’re here, Aziraphale. It’s an interesting name. I’ve found it a little difficult to get used to it, in my head.” </p>
<p>“You can call me whatever you like, my dear.” </p>
<p>“I want to call you by your name.”</p>
<p>“All right.” Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “I – I’ve missed you.” </p>
<p>“I’ve missed you too. Do you want to come in?” </p>
<p>“I’d like nothing more. Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?” He craned his neck again, toward the door beyond. </p>
<p>“I promise, you’re not. I’ve just been working out in the garden – which is why I look like this.” </p>
<p>“I think you look very nice.” </p>
<p>Crowley snorted, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Come on.” He picked up the suitcase and the chocolates, feeling the weight of both – but especially the suitcase – and wondering if Aziraphale meant to stay with him. The thought made him more than a little giddy, and it was with a mixture of confusion, happiness and excitement that he led Aziraphale inside. “So this is it,” Crowley gestured widely, very aware of how ridiculous he must look in his tiny shirt, and oh god – how he must smell. “Let me give you the tour.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale followed, remarking on each room with increasing delight until they got to the little library. “You’re collecting books!” Aziraphale exclaimed, taking one up and looking at the binding before setting it down again and selecting another. When he had satisfactorily examined the contents of most of the shelves – really, it was only a small collection – the blush from outside returned. “My dear, could you please show me to the facilities – ah, the toilet — before we continue? I’m afraid I hadn’t accounted for the long drive when I left London.” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Crowley said, realising at that moment that Aziraphale had never asked him that question before, not even after a night of drinking. “It’s right this way, around the corner and to the left.” </p>
<p>With a nervous chuckle, Aziraphale departed and found Crowley in the living room some minutes later, appearing refreshed. He smiled at Crowley and came closer, taking both of his hands in his warm grasp. “This is a darling cottage. You’ve done wonderful work. I simply adore it.”  </p>
<p>“Good. You’re free to stay as long as you like.” </p>
<p>“Really?” The relief and happiness in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s heart clench. </p>
<p>“I reckon half of the reason I bought this place was because it reminded me of you. Thought you’d like it, if you ever came back.” The truth had slipped out of Crowley’s mouth without him knowing. He fought his own blush and resisted the urge to kick himself, even as Aziraphale regarded him with solemn, wide eyes. </p>
<p>“I thought you would have moved on. Maybe met someone?” Aziraphale spoke in the tone of voice reserved for a person who was trying to stay neutral, but most certainly was not. </p>
<p>Crowley squeezed his hands. “No one.” </p>
<p>“Oh, I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but that’s a relief to hear.” Aziraphale almost tripped over his words. “I worried about coming here. I know that I left so abruptly, and we never had any promises between us. I know that I hurt you. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t have any expectations – none whatsoever. We can just be friends, like we used to be, if that’s what you want. I—”</p>
<p>“Angel,” Crowley said, reverting to the old nickname with a certainty that had been growing for some time. “We were never just friends.” And then he kissed him. </p>
<p>Aziraphale let out a small exclamation of surprise, but then he was kissing back, pulling Crowley into his arms and holding tightly. Crowley was nearly swept off his feet. His heart was hammering with joy and amazement as the kiss deepened and, instead of pulling away, Aziraphale moaned into it. They were flush together, and Crowley could feel the effect he was having, sure that Aziraphale could feel the same. He slid his fingers though that soft, curly hair, cupped Aziraphale’s face and kissed him with an intensity he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before – no, he was sure had never felt it before, this want and ache, this happiness. </p>
<p>“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” Crowley murmured against Aziraphale’s panting lips.</p>
<p>“Yes, my dear. I think we do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you enjoyed the reunion of these two lovebirds - stay tuned!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Snow in November</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In which we finally earn our 'E' rating ;)</p>
<p>Thanks to all who have stuck with this story from the beginning - I hope you enjoy! There will be one final chapter posted next week. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale decided he quite liked kissing. In the two weeks since he had come to the cottage, they had done a lot of it – in the living room, in the back garden, the kitchen, the front steps, even in the town, which held a small but delightful array of shops, pubs and restaurants. He had become very adept at kissing, as well, if the little moans and sounds of delight coming from Crowley were any indication. They were, currently, sitting on a little stone bench in the back garden barely wide enough for two. Crowley was nearly in his lap, his long legs bracketing Aziraphale in the front and back, and they had been kissing tenderly for what seemed like minutes but had probably been almost an hour. Now that he was human, Aziraphale had difficulty estimating the passage of time; it was one side effect of being a formerly immortal ethereal entity. It seemed to pass very quickly when he was with Crowley, particularly when they were wrapped up in each other, and drag when they were apart.  </p>
<p>Crowley nibbled along his jaw, down to the sensitive underside of his throat, and Aziraphale shivered and gasped as the sensation travelled from that point of contact to his aching Effort – his human member. His erection. He was hard and leaking in his trousers, and the knowing press of Crowley’s leg against him made him involuntarily shift his hips for more contact. Aziraphale made a sound that was very close to a whine, and Crowley’s lips met his again for an open-mouthed kiss that let their tongues tangle and twist together. </p>
<p>So far, they hadn’t done more than this; Crowley hadn’t asked for more, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to ask, or for what. All of these feelings and desires, while not totally foreign, were far more intensified than they had ever been before. He was still getting used to the responses of his body, his desperate need to be physically as well as emotionally connected to Crowley. The intensity of his arousal was something he had never experienced as an angel, not even when kissing Crowley before their separation. It was quite overwhelming. </p>
<p>And then there were other reasons. Crowley was so experienced in these matters. Perhaps he would be turned off by Aziraphale’s lack of knowledge. It was clear now to Aziraphale that Crowley knew, or at least suspected, something about his true nature.  </p>
<p>He didn’t know what the repercussions might be if he told Crowley the truth, but he knew that it had to be broached in order for there to be real understanding between them. He couldn’t be sure if his human state was permanent or temporary – he had, of course, been given no instructions. He had merely woken up with a full bladder and a pounding head due to a hangover he hadn’t been able to miracle away. </p>
<p>The memory of that day flooded back, and with it the combined elation and despair he had felt, and he stiffened slightly, trying to push those recollections away – to concentrate on the now and the glorious, drunken feeling elicited by Crowley’s kisses. But something must have changed in his demeanor. Crowley pulled back, his lips swollen and eyes dark, and stroked a hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “You all right?” </p>
<p>“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry – just getting a bit of a crick in my neck.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. The aches and pains of an average, middle-aged body were another thing Aziraphale was now forced to reckon with. Still, they were inconveniences which paled in comparison to the joy of sitting together with Crowley in the sunlight.   </p>
<p>“How about breakfast? I’ll make you some scones. Got that clotted cream you love – the fresh kind from the farm.” Crowley’s voice was impossibly soft. It was clear he didn’t quite buy Aziraphale’s excuse, but he wasn’t going to press. </p>
<p>“You’re too good to me, my dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes went a bit misty. They did that very often, these days. </p>
<p>Crowley gave him a quick peck on the nose. “Nah. It’s nice having someone to spoil. Saves me from getting a pet.” </p>
<p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale swatted at his hand, and Crowley laughed, his eyes twinkling as he disentangled himself and stood, his obvious arousal tenting the soft joggers he’d worn to bed the night before. He didn’t bother to rearrange himself, but instead swaggered towards the kitchen door, leaving Aziraphale to admire his retreating figure and shapely backside.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>They spent the afternoon on a long drive to the little towns around the area, visiting various bookshops. Aziraphale was still awaiting a shipment from America of the texts he’d had with him, but in the meantime he was on a quest to replace several of his favorite volumes from the abandoned store in London. Of course the difficulty, now, was that money was an object. He couldn’t simply miracle himself bank notes to pay the clerk. In fact, he was beginning to understand that being human was more expensive than he had ever realised. He had never worried about how much something cost – value, after all, was in the eye of the beholder. But he wished he’d had the forethought to pick up a Gutenberg Bible or Shakespeare Folio when he'd had the chance.<p>As he and Crowley climbed back into the Bentley after their last stop, practical concerns began to weigh on him. In America, he’d discovered a little money in his flat upon waking as a human, but he’d used most of it on his airline ticket to London (and he thanked the Almighty he had also had a passport and the necessary documentation to do so). But as generous as Crowley was, always insisting on paying for everything – the rather expensive Dickens volume Aziraphale had neatly set on his lap was only the most recent example—Aziraphale didn’t want to have to rely on him for the rest of their lives, or as along as this lasted. He also knew that Crowley’s finances were more precarious than they’d ever been before, and the last thing he wanted was to be a burden. </p>
<p>“I’ve decided I need a profession,” he said, watching Crowley’s profile as he reacted; he was wearing dark sunglasses, but his eyebrows lifted, and his mouth curled up into a half smile. “I need to do something useful, to be able to pay my way, as it were.” They hadn’t spoken about the long term, at least not yet, but Crowley had made it very clear that he didn’t want Aziraphale out of his sight, save for their sleeping arrangements at night. Aziraphale had been ensconced in the room next to Crowley’s, and every morning, there was a gentle knock on the door before Crowley poked his head in, wearing an expression of relief when he confirmed Aziraphale was still there. </p>
<p>“You know I don’t mind paying for you.” Crowley gave him a quick glance. “You’re not thinking of leaving?” </p>
<p>“No.” Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “I promise, leaving is the furthest thing from my mind. But I would like to be able to contribute to the household.” </p>
<p>Crowley seemed content with that. He let out a little sigh and shrugged. “Why not open up another bookshop?” </p>
<p>“I’m afraid I . . . don’t have the means for that anymore.” A little pang shot through him as he remembered his London shop. It had been everything he had ever wanted. “And unfortunately, I can’t think of a place that would hire me. I don’t have any formal record of employment.” </p>
<p>“Well . . .” Crowley started, then gave him another look. “Let met help you get started, then.” </p>
<p>“My dear, I don’t want to take any of your money.” </p>
<p>“You wouldn’t be taking it; I’d be investing it. Look, I have faith that you know more about books than anyone I’ve ever known – and I think you could be successful if, of course, you’d let customers in to buy them. Plus, there’s no bookshop in our town. Tourists love that kind of thing. You could really make a killing in the summer, now that people are travelling again.” </p>
<p>“Crowley, I hate to tell you, but bookshops are never terribly lucrative in the best of times.” </p>
<p>Crowley shrugged. “Meh. Who cares, as long as it makes you happy?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale gazed out the window at the rolling hills and meadows; everything was vibrant green and alive, and he let Crowley’s words wash over him. It was wonderful to have someone care about his happiness. He had never, not since the beginning of creation, had that. It lessened the pain of the loss of his former self and gave him hope and joy for the future. Crowley covered his hand with his own and gave it a squeeze. “Just think about it.” </p>
<p>“All right,” Aziraphale said, swallowing around the lump of emotion in his throat. “I will.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>That evening Crowley cooked a delicious dinner of fresh fish and vegetables with a buttery sauce Aziraphale was sure was made of pure sin. He swiped his finger across his empty plate, getting every bit of it, and groaned as the flavour coated his tongue. They were sat outside at the small patio table Crowley had installed in the garden. Strings of fairy lights hung above their heads, and above that, the stars were bright and twinkling in the great firmament of Heaven. Out here under the vast canopy of the Almighty’s creation, Aziraphale felt closer to God than he had in a very long time. His humanity was a gift She had bestowed upon him; there was no other way to explain what had happened. It was ineffable. And he would never take this time with Crowley for granted.<p>He took another sip of wine, feeling sated and satisfied, until he realised that Crowley was watching him with a certain familiar look on his face. </p>
<p>“Did you enjoy your dinner, angel?” Crowley arched an eyebrow. He looked very beautiful tonight with his hair falling down around his face and a smudge of kohl under his eyes. Aziraphale was glad he had grown it out again. </p>
<p>“It was simply scrumptious, my dear.” </p>
<p>“M’glad.” Crowley ran his fingers along the backside of Aziraphale’s hand, up to his sensitive wrist, and then covered his hand with his own.</p>
<p>They looked at one another, the tension stretching out and becoming more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. Aziraphale knew what he wanted more than anything, but before they took this next step, it was time to have the conversation he’d been dreading. </p>
<p>“Crowley. There’s something . . . we need to discuss. Something I should have told you the day I returned. I’ve just . . . been putting it off, I suppose. I’ve enjoyed these last weeks so tremendously, I didn’t want to ruin it.” </p>
<p>Crowley’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “So we’re doing this?” </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“I think I pretty much know where you’re headed.” </p>
<p>“Do you?” Aziraphale regarded him curiously.  </p>
<p>“I mean, I’m not the most observant of all people, but you used to, ah, glow, sometimes. And you were kind of right where I needed you, all of the time. And I might have been drunk that night at the Thames, but I saw your wings. You’re an angel. A real one, aren’t you?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale gave him a pained smile, his heart thumping as he tried to find the words. “Not anymore. I’m mortal now. But yes. I—I was sent to help you. But you must also know that at the beginning I was given a . . . glimpse into your life. Your private life. I realise how intrusive that sounds, and it was. I . . . hope you will be able to forgive me.”</p>
<p>Crowley looked like he was having a bit of difficulty. His face had gone slightly pale, but he didn’t withdraw his hand from Aziraphale’s, which Aziraphale counted as a good sign. “Fuck. That’s a . . . lot. So you can perform miracles?” </p>
<p>“Indeed. Well, I used to be able to – before. My ethereal abilities are gone.” He frowned down at the table. There were certain things he missed more than others, and he wished he hadn’t taken the miracles for granted. “I know it must sound mad. I apologize for not telling you the truth before, but I’m afraid my hands were tied. There are certain protocols, you see . . .” He drifted off, watching Crowley’s expression change from shocked to interested. </p>
<p>“I was sort of expecting for you to say you were in a cult. So angels really do exist. I’m not just crazy?” </p>
<p>“Angels exist – and they sometimes walk upon the Earth.” </p>
<p>Crowley looked up, twirling his finger toward the sky. “And Heaven?” He poked his finger down. “Hell?” </p>
<p>“It all exists. But I am human now, in all the ways that matter.” </p>
<p>Crowley let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “I mean, it’s a relief to hear you say it, but at the same time I still feel utterly insane. Angels. Next you’ll be telling me there’re demons, too.”</p>
<p>“Er.” </p>
<p>“Fuck, there are. Of course there are. Well, alright then. Should I start going to church?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale laughed, feeling almost giddy with relief; Crowley was taking this in much better stride than he’d expected. It felt like an incredible weight had been lifted from his chest. “If you like, though I don’t think the Almighty cares how humans worship Her, or even if they do, to be honest. We don’t hear much from Her these days. Heaven has become a bit too bureaucratic, if you ask me.” </p>
<p>That really seemed to appeal to Crowley – he laughed again, his eyes twinkling. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.” He understood all too well about bureaucracy.  </p>
<p>“It isn’t.” </p>
<p>“So how is it you managed to leave? I take it these circumstances are a bit unusual? Or do angels go about becoming human on a regular basis?”  </p>
<p>“I’ve never heard of a case like mine before. I’m not sure, exactly, how it happened. I think someone, perhaps the Almighty Herself, granted my wish – to be with you.” Aziraphale flushed, grateful for the relative darkness. </p>
<p>Crowley looked truly dumbstruck. “You wanted to become human to be with <i>me</i>?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale felt suddenly too vulnerable, exposed. He glanced away, his throat working. “I suppose that’s the gist of it.” </p>
<p>“Ngk,” Crowley said. He was regarding Aziraphale with something like awe, and Aziraphale wished he could still feel his emotions; he could tell in a general way what people were feeling by reading body language, but that was a capability most humans possessed. He wanted to know for sure that this hadn’t changed things between them. He didn’t want Crowley to treat him differently, to feel obligated to be with him just because Aziraphale himself had made what Crowley considered an outrageous sacrifice. </p>
<p>They were still holding hands. “Yes, I’ve been given this gift – or is it a punishment for not being angelic enough? I’m not sure. I . . . I never fit in, up there.” He glanced upwards at the stars and the galaxies beyond. “But when I came to Earth I finally found a place where I belonged. I found food and dancing and books and . . . I  found someone who valued me for me, not for my status or what I could do for them.” He blinked back the silly tears that had started to heat his eyes. “I did my duty, and that was all. I wasn’t anyone important. Earth is my home now, and it’s where I want to stay. But . . . please, be honest with me, now that you know everything. Do you still want me here – do you still want me?” It was unbelievably difficult to utter those words, and once he did, they hung in the silence between them for several beats. In those moments, which stretched on until Aziraphale thought he might die, he was sure Crowley was about to let him down gently. </p>
<p>Crowley threaded their fingers more tightly together. His hair glinted like copper under the fairy lights. “Of course I do. Like I said, I was already pretty sure of the truth. Your confirming it doesn’t do anything to change my feelings for you. I love you, Ezra, Aziraphale, whatever and whoever you are. I’m one lucky bastard.” </p>
<p>The words hung between them, and even though Aziraphale had lost his wings, he felt like he might soar into the sky just on the strength of his love. “I love you, too. I would . . . I would very much like you to take me to bed.” </p>
<p>Crowley flailed and managed to stop falling, but only because of the sturdy hedge behind him. “Bollocks,” Crowley grumbled, getting both of his feet back on the ground. “I don’t suppose you could forget you ever saw that?” </p>
<p>“Not in a million years.” If only they could have that long. But . . .” And this was where the nerves came back in. “I’m afraid I’ve never done more than kissing.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I kinda figured, angel. It’s not a problem.” Crowley’s voice had gone husky, and Aziraphale decided he quite liked the sound of it.  </p>
<p>“You won’t be disappointed by my lack of finesse?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. </p>
<p>“No, of course not. Are you bothered by my experience?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale felt hot all over. Human hormones were very potent indeed.  “No, of course not.”  </p>
<p>“Well then. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” </p>
<p>Crowley’s bedroom was just across the hall from where Aziraphale had been sleeping. His bed was much larger, and so extremely inviting, covered in dark, soft sheets and with more pillows than Aziraphale would have expected. Aziraphale stood at the foot of the bed while Crowley dimmed the lights and pulled back the duvet, and then they were in each other’s arms. Crowley’s mouth was hot and insistent, and Aziraphale wanted more of him. He pulled Crowley firmly against his body, loving the feel of the hard length against his own, the strong arms around his back, holding him close. They kissed that way for a while, until they were both panting into each other’s mouths, their harsh breaths mingling.</p>
<p>The frustrated arousal that had been building for weeks was driving Aziraphale mad. He had to get his hands on Crowley, and to have Crowley’s hands on him. That was the only thing he knew as he pulled at Crowley’s shirt, tugged at the waist of his tight jeans. Crowley, for his part, was just as impatient. He bit back a curse as he tried to unfasten Aziraphale’s waistcoat, the small, pearled buttons slipping between his fingers. Not wanting to relegate that particular item to the waste bin as a casualty of their lovemaking, Aziraphale took over and made quick work of his garments while Crowley, following his lead, did the same. Finally, they were undressed, and Aziraphale was treated to the first full contact of Crowley against him. The warmth of his skin and the feel of his muscles flexing under Aziraphale’s hands lit up Aziraphale’s nerves, and his erection ached as Crowley’s member brushed against it. </p>
<p>“Bed,” Crowley said, his mouth hot against Aziraphale’s ear. “I want to touch you.” </p>
<p>“Oh good Lord,” Aziraphale replied, helplessly allowing himself to be pulled down onto the large, plush bed. Supine on his back, he watched breathlessly as Crowley climbed over him, kissing his chest and nipples, which soon became pert from the attention. Crowley sucked one and then the other into his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning as though they tasted delicious. He did all sorts of clever things with his tongue, rolling it over one nub until Aziraphale felt the ache in his groin, which pulsed, hard and insistent. </p>
<p>“I love your body.” Crowley had two handfuls of Aziraphale’s jiggly sides, and he squeezed and bit and licked there too, making Aziraphale cry out in pleasure and delight. He was gripping the sheets in both of his hands until Crowley pried them loose and put them in his own head, giving him a heated look. “I want you to show me what feels good.” </p>
<p>“I don’t want to hurt you.” </p>
<p>“You definitely won’t.” With a cheek grin, Crowley kissed all down the length of Aziraphale’s quivering belly, and then he was there, kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs to take his leaking member in hand. Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s head, feeling the silky strands of his hair slide between his fingers. </p>
<p>Crowley gave him a firm stroke from root to tip, and Aziraphale’s hips nearly shot off the bed. “Shh, angel. I’ve got you.” And then he opened his mouth and Aziraphale could hardly control himself. The warmth, the wetness, the feeling of Crowley’s tongue there, running over where he was most sensitive, and – heavens – the look on Crowley’s face, as though he was savoring the finest delicacy, made pleasure zing through his entire body. Aziraphale gasped, unable to tear his eyes away, as Crowley’s mouth closed over him and, his gorgeous eyes latched onto Aziraphale – sucked. </p>
<p>“Oh my darling,” Aziraphale babbled. The sensation had him quickly spiraling out of control. He wasn’t sure he would be able to last much longer, and they had barely begun. “I’m – C-Crowley.” He tugged a warning, but Crowley only gave him a sly look and applied himself even more vigorously. Seconds later, the need that had been building crested in an overwhelming pleasure. He felt himself burst on Crowley’s tongue, and could only moan and hold on for dear life as he was completely overcome. Finally, gradually, the pulsing ecstasy subsided, but Crowley continued to attend to him, kissing and licking him clean until he was much too sensitive, and he let out a little hiss of discomfort. Crowley lay down beside him, trailing his fingers along the inside of his thigh. </p>
<p>“How did that feel, angel?” </p>
<p>“Words can’t describe. My dear – but you – you’re still . . .” Aziraphale reached for him. The member – the erection – was delightfully hard in his grip. He gave it an experimental stroke, and Crowley groaned, so he did it again. There was a warm, slick substance at the tip, and he rubbed his thumb around it, surprised and delighted to be rewarded with more. He had always wondered what the fuss was about regarding copulation, and now he finally understood. </p>
<p>Crowley leaned back and put his hands behind his head, content to let him explore, and Aziraphale did, following the same trajectory as Crowley had – kissing his chest and his nipples, the concavity of his stomach and the swell of his ribs. Crowley’s skin was warm and slightly salty, and Aziraphale’s mouth watered at the taste. He decided he would be quite content to do this for hours, but Crowley’s restlessly shifting hips drew his attention. He considered the red, throbbing erection in his fist and wondered if he should put his mouth on it or if Crowley had something else in mind. Aziraphale had grown aroused again during his investigations, but this time it was less urgent, and he kept his focus on pleasuring Crowley. </p>
<p>“Tell me what to do?” He lowered his head and gave Crowley a coy look from under his lashes. </p>
<p>“You’re gorgeous,” Crowley groaned, his face flushed. “I want you inside of me.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale blinked, his body going hot all over. “You do?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. Do you want that?” </p>
<p>“Very much.” </p>
<p>“All right. I’ll have to get ready. It’s been a while. And . . . you should know that I’ve been tested. I’m clean. That’s something we need to discuss. That you always need to discuss with any partner.” Crowley bit his lower lip. “If you should ever be . . . if that . . . should ever happen.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale nodded. He knew that he was vulnerable to human illness now, the same as anyone else. But he didn’t want Crowley to think that he had any interest in other people. The very thought was absurd, but it was obviously something Crowley was concerned about, if the way he was frowning was any indication. </p>
<p>“Thank you, my love. I appreciate your concern. But I can assure you, you’re the only one I’ll ever want in this way.” </p>
<p>Crowley’s eyes widened, and a faint flush coloured his cheeks. “Fuck. Don’t know when I became such a sap.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale kissed him, and they were lost again in each other, in the meeting of mouths and lips and tongues. He liked the feeling of Crowley’s body underneath his, the way their erections slid together as they kissed. Finally, Crowley broke away to rummage in the bedside table, returning with a small clear plastic bottle.   </p>
<p>Aziraphale had of course considered such a scenario but imagining was very different from doing and . . . Lord, seeing. He watched Crowley bend his knees, bringing wet fingers to the tiny hole beyond his bollocks and sliding two inside without preamble. Crowley let out a gasp at the contact, and Aziraphale stared, transfixed, as Crowley moved his hand slowly. It was beyond gorgeous, and he found himself murmuring encouragement and endearments, offering his own hand to the task. Crowley passed him the bottle, and once properly slicked, Aziraphale let himself be guided. He pressed one of his fingers inside the hot clench of Crowley’s body and wondered how he would possibly survive putting his member there. It was like being inside a sheath of warm velvet. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and pushed another finger in alongside the first. </p>
<p>Crowley was almost writhing on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. Aziraphale grew bolder in his movements, filled with such love and tenderness for the man before him, who was offering himself so freely without any hint of shame or regret. It was a gift, and one Aziraphale was determined to deserve. </p>
<p>“M’ready,” Crowley gasped, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.  </p>
<p>“Would you like me to . . . . like this?” Aziraphale shuffled between Crowley’s spread thighs. </p>
<p>“Yeah. Come on, please. Now.”  </p>
<p>“You’re so beautiful, my love.” Aziraphale soaked up the sight of what was spread out for his appreciation. He held himself at the base and nudged against Crowley’s entrance, barely pressing himself inside. Crowley keened and wrapped his legs around Aziraphale’s hips in invitation. The tip of him penetrated, and the hot squeeze of Crowley’s body made him shudder. It awakened an animal instinct deep inside of him, an urge to rut and claim and take, that rather than conflict with his caring and love, seemed to heighten those feelings even more, making it nearly impossible to breathe, let alone think. Aziraphale froze, overwhelmed, gazing into Crowley’s lust-blown eyes. </p>
<p>“Come on, angel. Fuck me.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale breathed out and, with a thrust, buried himself to the hilt. They both made dark, quiet sounds. Their connection was intense, a strange echo of those fleeting moments where he had felt utterly connected to God and Her love – but much more visceral. More tangible, Lord forgive him – more real. He held Crowley in his arms as he began to move. His hips seemed to possess hidden knowledge; they moved almost of their own volition, circling and thrusting and pushing into Crowley, who shuddered and groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. The tension began to build in Aziraphale’s thighs, between his legs, an ache that could not be denied or ignored. He was filled to bursting like an overripe plum. Every movement brought him higher, closer, and he needed to kiss Crowley, to nuzzle under his chin, to taste his skin. </p>
<p>There was a sudden tightening, a rhythmic clench around him, warm wetness slick between them, and Aziraphale realized that Crowley had come – silently, his mouth open, head tossed back. It didn’t take more than that – Aziraphale found his release a second time, deep in the warmth of Crowley’s body. They rode the climax for some long moments, both thrusting and seeking together, until Aziraphale felt his muscles go lax, and he lowered his weight onto Crowley, who welcomed him with a sleepy groan. </p>
<p>“Damn, angel.” Crowley’s voice was muffled against his ear. “You’re a fast learner.”  </p>
<p>Aziraphale felt his face heat, which was ridiculous given the circumstances. He couldn’t even think of a rejoinder. They lay there for some moments until Aziraphale softened, but neither of them made a move to separate. It was sticky and messy —and quite a delight. </p>
<p>“Are you sure I’m not hurting you?” Aziraphale asked, gently kissing along the length of Crowley’s throat. </p>
<p>“Nah. I like feeling you on top of me like this,” Crowley said. “Fuck. I’ll want to go again if you keep doing that.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale smiled into his skin. “And the problem is?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Summer turned into a gentle, warm fall, so it was with some surprise that, one day in late November, Aziraphale woke to find snow falling. Crowley was still asleep – he often slept late on weekends, and Aziraphale would make tea and read in bed until he awoke. On this particular morning, however, Aziraphale simply lay in Crowley’s arms and watched the flakes swirl in the wind. It was utterly quiet.<p>He remembered the first time he had seen snow on Earth. He had been sent down to a village in what was now Ukraine. There had been a man and a woman, childless, and he had been tasked with giving them a fertility blessing. </p>
<p>They lived in a small, one-room house on the outskirts of a tiny village. This had been before Aziraphale was used to wearing human clothing. He had walked, barefoot in the snow, and peeked into their window. Inside, he had seen two people twined around each other, their skin golden in the firelight. He watched, a strange pang in his chest, as they caressed one another – as they gazed into each other’s eyes. They had been so wrapped up in each other, neither had noticed the angel at the window raising his hand. It had not been the first time Aziraphale had been lonely, but it was the first time he recognized the emotion. </p>
<p>He burrowed closer to Crowley, inhaling his comforting scent, his heart full. He would never regret what he had been given.  </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he whispered into the quiet, hoping the Almighty could hear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Until Eternity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay - motivation is a challenge these days! Had to give our boys their ending, though. Enjoy, and thank you for reading and your kind comments &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Epilogue</p>
<p>The Tadfield Advertiser – Obituaries, June 12, 2066</p>
<p>
  <i>Anthony J Crowley, former owner of Crowley Textiles Incorporated, passed away last week at the age of 87 after a short illness. Mr Crowley was well known in the Tadfield community for his work helping the hardest hit families during the pandemic of 2020 and for saving hundreds of jobs during those hard times and through the recession that followed. Reading Angels, the charity he founded to improve the literacy of students who suffered learning setbacks, is still running. While Mr Crowley never lived in Tadfield, he was given a medal of honor by the mayor for his long-time commitment to the townspeople in a ceremony late in 2064. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Mr Crowley was married to his long-time partner Aziraphale Fell, rare-book dealer and the owner of AZ Fell’s Antiquarian and Rare Books in Sussex. The two of them lived on the South Downs until three months ago, when Mr Fell passed away. While they never had children, Mr Crowley and Mr Fell are survived by hundreds of friends and neighbours from the Sussex area, Tadfield, London and beyond. A memorial service is planned for this Sunday at the Tadfield Unitarian Church. Donations in lieu of flowers can be sent to Reading Angels, C/O Adam Young, Executive Director. </i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Meanwhile, Somewhere Else</i>
  </p>
</div>Crowley blinked, staring at the door in front of him. He seemed to be in some sort of a waiting room. There were empty chairs behind him, and faint instrumental music was playing from somewhere, though the tune wasn’t familiar. He looked down at the pristine white floor and noticed that he was wearing boots with heels. He hadn’t been able to get his feet into heels for over twenty years due to the bunions.<p>His hands were different too. They were no longer gnarled and marked with age; they looked young. He patted his stomach, which was flat, no evidence of the slight paunch he’d developed in later years after decades of delicious meals in good company. He was wearing the black silk shirt that he’d gotten to celebrate his forty-third birthday. That night he and Aziraphale had gone to the Ritz, and Crowley had proposed.  </p>
<p>He closed his eyes as the memories flooded back – the crystal glasses filled with champagne, Aziraphale’s eyes widening as Crowley held out two matching rings. His elation as they had kissed and all of the patrons around them clapped. </p>
<p>But Aziraphale was gone, and more recent memories burst through those good ones: the hospital, the sound of machines beeping, a nurse with a sad smile offering her condolences. Those endless weeks stretching out while he shuffled around the flat alone, until . . . And . . . hadn’t he . . . </p>
<p>He should be dead.</p>
<p>He was, in fact, dead. Wasn’t he?</p>
<p>Crowley opened his eyes again. The door in front of him cracked open, and a petite person of ambiguous gender smiled at him from behind thick-rimmed glasses, then glanced down at the clipboard they were holding. “Good morning, Mr, ah - Crowley,” they said. “We’re so very glad you’re here. Come right this way.” They opened the door wider, and beyond Crowley could see a long white hall with various doors on either side. It looked like a cross between a doctor’s office and a corporate headquarters. </p>
<p>“And where exactly are we?” Crowley asked, following behind. There was no one else around, but the music seemed louder in here, and it was beginning to sound more familiar. </p>
<p>“In Heaven, of course. Or,” they corrected, “not precisely Heaven yet – this is where souls come for evaluation. I’ll be doing a brief examination and there will be a bit of paperwork, but it shouldn’t take long.” They beamed a smile at him. </p>
<p>Crowley felt his heart leap in his chest at the words of his rather too chipper guide. It was an odd feeling, since he was also gradually becoming aware that what looked and felt like a body was really not a body at all, but perhaps his spirit arranged in a semblance of a body. Heaven. If he was in Heaven, that meant he was truly dead, and if he was truly dead, perhaps it meant Aziraphale might be here, too. While his guide chattered on about next steps, Crowley could only make sense out of every other word or so. His mind was full of Aziraphale. </p>
<p>“And right this way, room 304.” The guide opened the door, and Crowley was ushered inside a small, rectangular room. It was sparsely furnished save for a desk and chair, and a small couch opposite, which Crowley sat down upon once the guide – spirit – angel? – gestured for him to do so. </p>
<p>“So, Mr Crowley. Let me take a look at your file.” They peered through their thick glasses. “Mmm. Hmm.” Every so often the angel, for now Crowley could see the faint outline of their white wings against the taupe leather chair, made a sound – sometimes amused, sometimes surprised, and once in a while almost indignant. Crowley strained to look, but the words on the paper were in some foreign language. He couldn’t make them out. </p>
<p>“What is that then, my life story or something?” </p>
<p>“Yes, exactly. This is It helps us to get a sense of what sort of occupation will most suit you, once you’re through the pearly gates.” They gave him another smile, turning the page. “Oh. Hmm. This is very interesting indeed. You’ve already got an assignment. Never seen one like this before, not in six thousand years. Well then. I guess there’s a first time for everything.” They closed the file and regarded him curiously, one eyebrow raised. </p>
<p>“What’s so unusual about it?” Crowley frowned as the being conjured a desk phone and dialed a number. He wondered if it was good or bad to have a unique assignment. From what Aziraphale had told him over the years, Heaven was probably not a good place to set a precedent. And would he be able to see Aziraphale, or had he been sent somewhere else, to another division, perhaps? He looked down at his hands, which had gone a bit translucent, and startled. He really was a fucking ghost.  </p>
<p>The angel was speaking. </p>
<p>“Yes. Yes, this is Ichthus. I have a request for a special assignment in room 304, signed by Gabriel. It’s <i>very</i> peculiar as well. I –” The angel looked at him, then covered their mouth and spoke into the phone, their speech muffled and strange. When they hung up, they whistled and looked toward the door expectantly.   </p>
<p>Crowley, who was now finding the limits of his patience tested, sat forward, resting his sort-of elbows on his sort-of knees. He noticed that when he concentrated hard enough, his body seemed more, well, like a body. “Listen, can you tell me what’s going on? You must have read in my file that I was married to an angel named Aziraphale. Or well, he was an angel. Do you know him? Is he here? Can I see him?” His voice got louder as he went on, but he couldn’t help it. If there was any chance, any chance at all he could see his angel— </p>
<p>Large brown eyes looked up at him. The angel bit their lip. Just then, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” said the angel. </p>
<p>The door opened, and Aziraphale walked in. </p>
<p>He looked like he hadn’t aged a day since Crowley had first crashed the Bentley into his bookshop in SoHo those many, many years ago. He was wearing his favorite velvet waistcoat and tartan bowtie, and the little lines on his forehead were finer, his eyes brighter. In his later years, Aziraphale had lost weight, but here he was in his plump, beautiful glory, just as he had been when Crowley had fallen in love with him. He looked . . . solid. Real. </p>
<p>“Angel?” Crowley whispered. </p>
<p>Aziraphale smiled brilliantly, seeming to glow from within, and held out his arms. “My darling.”  </p>
<p>“I’ll just, ah, give you two a few minutes alone, shall I?” the other angel said, sidling out of the room. Crowley couldn’t have cared less if a thousand angels were watching them. He was off of his chair in a flash and enveloped in the familiar arms of his husband. </p>
<p>“I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispered against that beloved head, pressing his lips against the soft hair behind Aziraphale’s ear. Though he wasn’t really able to feel the gesture physically, and he couldn’t smell Aziraphale’s scent, it was comforting all the same. He felt the prickle of what might have been tears behind his eyelids, but nothing came. “Tell me it’s really you?” </p>
<p>“It’s really me, my dear. I’ve been waiting for you. And I have so much to tell you,” Aziraphale said gently, tucking Crowley’s head against his neck. </p>
<p>“I’m dead.” </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“I can’t feel you.” </p>
<p>“I know.” Aziraphale pulled back a little, his face tender and sad, and Crowley could see a faint halo behind Aziraphale’s head, and he finally understood. </p>
<p>“You’re an angel again.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale nodded. </p>
<p>“I’m glad,” Crowley said, meaning it, though the reality of the situation was plain – and devastating. He was being given this last, final gift before moving on. “I guess you’ve come here to say goodbye?” </p>
<p>“Goodbye?” Aziraphale shook his head. “No, my dear. Please, let me explain. You’re—”</p>
<p>A throat impatiently clearing in the near vicinity made them both startle. It belonged to a handsome, well-kept man—or, rather, angel—of around middle age, wearing an expensive grey suit. He looked like the kind of businessman Crowley had dealt with often in his former career, the kind that never took no for an answer. </p>
<p>“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, stepping slightly away but lacing their fingers together. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” </p>
<p>“So this is the human you gave it up for, eh, Zira?” The angel Gabriel frowned, assessing. “Not bad. Not my type, but whatever. I have my orders from ‘on high’,” he said, making air quotes as he did. “The Almighty seems to have taken an interest in you two little love birds, for what it’s worth. Never seen it done before, but Anthony Crowley, we’re making you an angel today. Of course you’ll have to be re-corporated as well. Can’t go down to Earth looking like Casper, now can you?” He laughed, like he’d made an excellent joke. “See, I told you I know about human things, Aziraphale.” </p>
<p>“Making me a – a what?” Crowley felt his eyebrows crawl into his hairline. “What’s he talking about, angel?” </p>
<p>“Yes, well . . .” Aziraphale seemed suddenly nervous. “You’re of course under no obligation to accept. But if you do, we will be reassigned to Earth, together. As Principalities, to help protect the citizenry. We could go wherever we like – back to England, perhaps. Or if you’d like to start somewhere else, I’ve heard Portugal is lovely this time of year.” </p>
<p>“But why me?” Crowley asked, disbelief plain in his tone.</p>
<p>Gabriel shrugged. “Ineffable. But, since you both are so fond of Earth for whatever reason, it makes sense. Better you than me, is what I say! So what’ll it be, my man?” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, smiling widely.  </p>
<p>Crowley turned to Aziraphale, taking in his angel’s slightly fearful expression. It was the same look he’d worn the day he’d told Crowley the truth about his origins. He had expected rejection. </p>
<p>“And we’ll be together?” Crowley asked softly. “You and me?”  </p>
<p>“Forever.” Aziraphale smiled, and faintly, from behind his shoulders, Crowley saw his wings emerge. They were breathtakingly beautiful, white and luscious with soft feathers, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to sink his fingers into the down, feel them slide between his palms. He wondered if angels liked that kind of thing. He supposed he was about to find out. </p>
<p>“And don’t forget the miracles,” Gabriel said, interrupting the slightly kinky turn of Crowley’s thoughts. “That’s a major perk, though we’ll start you off small for the first thousand years or so. It’ll be a while before you get up to full power.” </p>
<p>“Uh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” Crowley gave Gabriel a quick glance. “I mean, I’d be an idiot to say no. So . . . sure. Why not?” </p>
<p>Gabriel rolled his eyes, but Aziraphale was ecstatic. He grabbed both of Crowley’s hands and kissed him, and a singing energy buzzed between them, something Crowley had never felt before, and couldn’t explain. </p>
<p>“All right, all right,” Gabriel said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know why humans have such a need to put their food hole on another person’s food hole, but again, better you than me! So let’s make you an angel, bud. And get you a body – you want one that looks like that?” He gestured toward Crowley vaguely. </p>
<p>“Oh yes, <i>please</i>,” said Aziraphale. </p>
<p>“Where are we going?” Crowley asked as he walked along with Aziraphale down another hall that looked suspiciously like the original hall, only impossibly whiter and more sterile. </p>
<p>“To the Almighty’s antechamber,” said Gabriel. “No one has been there in over a thousand years, so not sure what to expect. The Metatron told us to take you there. We’ll wait outside.” </p>
<p>They finally came to an ornately carved wooden door. Gabriel knocked three times, and a booming voice called, “Enter.” </p>
<p>Crowley did.</p>
<p>Later, he couldn’t have told you what had happened if you asked. But when he came out of the room several moments – days – weeks – later, he was sporting his own pair of wings and a headache from being imbued with all manner of arcane angelic knowledge. Aside from that, however, he still felt mostly like himself. And his stomach still swooped with joy to discover Aziraphale waiting for him outside. Gabriel was gone, probably gotten bored or had some more important matter to attend to. </p>
<p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped when he saw him. “Your wings!” </p>
<p>Crowley looked over his shoulders. Black feathers rustled as he moved, and he stretched them, using only the power of his mind. “Yeah. I . . . She asked me what colour, and I said black. You don’t like them?” </p>
<p>“I love them, my dear. They suit you perfectly.” </p>
<p>Crowley preened and stretched them again, loving the feel of the air running over his primaries as they flapped. His new body felt good, too; much more limber than he’d been for the past thirty years. He couldn’t wait to give the whole package a test run.</p>
<p>Aziraphale was watching him curiously, almost shyly. Without wanting to waste another moment, Crowley went to him. Aziraphale smelled of bergamot and dusty leather, and Crowley breathed him in, hardly able to process the joy he felt. Aziraphale held him just as tightly, and they murmured endearments to each other, separating only to look at one another, and then to kiss, and begin the holding all over again. Aziraphale felt warm in his arms, warm and whole, and Crowley was starting to doubt his own sanity. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, but he was never going to take it for granted. </p>
<p>They kissed again, and when they finally separated, Aziraphale’s pupils were wide, his lips swollen and breathless. Crowley knew that look intimately. He gave Aziraphale his best cocky grin. “Want to go fly, angel?” </p>
<p>“I’d like nothing more.” </p>
<p>If you looked up at the sky that night, you might have seen two angels, one dark, one light, tumbling through the air in what may have been a wrestling match, but also may have been something else entirely. You would have thought your eyes were playing tricks on you. When you blinked, the sky would have been black again, shimmering only with stars stretching out into the infinite beyond.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>